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•i 



ISLAND GOLD 


BY 

VALENTINE 'VyiLLIAMS 

AUTHOR OF “ THE MAN WITH THE CLUB FOOT ** 
AND “ THE YELLOW STREAK ” 



* 


BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

©fje ^tberstbe $re£« Cambridge 
1923 



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COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY THE METROPOLITAN PUBLICATIONS, INC. 
COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY VALENTINE WILLIAMS 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 


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t £ jJ 


Wbt fctottsifee $Jrcg£{ 
CAMBRIDGE i MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. 


MAR 30 '23 

©Cl A606979 







CONTENTS 


I. Dona Luisa 1 

II. In which a Gentleman pays his Debt 11 

III. The Message 29 

IV. A Footstep in the Lane 46 

V. The Girl in the Smoke-Room 56 

VI. I RECEIVE AN INVITATION 74 

VII. The Vice-Consul’s Warning 88 

VIII. Dr. Custrin 98 

IX. Concerning a Long Drink 103 

X. The Grave in the Clearing 118 

XI. A Voice in the Forest 135 

XII. I meet an Old Acquaintance 147 

XIII. El Cojo 157 

XIV. “Die Funf-und-Acht" ir” 169 

XV. Marjorie’s Adventu 181 

XVI. Black Pablo makes Preparations 190 
XVII. The Escape 200 

XVIII. A Face among the Ferns 208 

XIX. Which proves that Two Heads are 

BETTER THAN ONE 


215 


VI 


CONTENTS 


XX. The Burial Chamber 227 

XXI. A Light in the Darkness and what 

came of it 246 

XXII. I INTERRUPT A TETE-A-TETE 257 

XXIII. Capitulation 265 

XXIV. Ulrich von Hagel’s Treasure 272 

XXV. The End of a Dream 285 

XXVI. In which a Black Box plays a Decisive 

Part 296 


ISLAND GOLD 





ISLAND GOLD 


CHAPTER I 

0 

DOftA LUISA 

As I was sitting on the verandah of John Bard’s 
bungalow, glancing through a two-months-old copy 
of The Sketch , I heard the clang of the iron gate 
below where I sat. I raised my eyes from the 
paper and looked down the gardens. At my feet 
was stretched a dark tangle of palms and luxuri¬ 
ant tropical verdure — beyond them in the dis¬ 
tance the glass-like surface of the sea, on which a 
great lucent moon threw a gleaming patch of 
light. 

The night was very tranquil. From the port at 
the foot of the hill on which my old friend, John 
Bard, had built his bungalow in this earthly para¬ 
dise, the occasional screech of a winch was wafted 
with astonishing clearness over the warm air. 
Somewhere in the distance there was the faint and 
monotonous thrumming of guitars. To these night 
noises of the little Central American port the sea 
murmured faintly a ceaseless accompaniment. 



2 


ISLAND GOLD 


I heard voices in the garden. Within the house 
a door swung to with a thud; there was the patter 
of slippered feet over the matting in the living- 
room, and Akawa, Bard’s Japanese servant, was 
at my elbow. His snow-white drill stood out 
against the black shadows which the moon cast 
at the back of the verandah. He did not speak, 
but with his mask-like face waited for me to 
notice him. 

“Well, Akawa?” said I; “what is it?” 

“Doha Luisa ask for the Senor Comandante, 
excuse me!” announced the Japanese stolidly. 

Comfortably stretched out in a cane chair, a 
cold drink frosting its long glass in the trough 
at my side, I turned and stared at the butler. I 
was undoubtedly the Senor Comandante, for thus, 
in the course of a lazy, aimless sort of holiday on 
the shores of the Pacific, had my rank of Major 
been hispaniolized. 

But what lady wanted me? Who could possibly 
know me here, seeing that only the day before 
one of John Bard’s fruit ships had landed me 
from San Salvador. 

Doha Luisa! The name had an alluring, ro¬ 
mantic ring, especially on this gorgeous night, 
the velvety sky powdered with glittering stars, the 
air heavy with perfumes exhaled from the scented 
gardens. That broad strain of romance in me 
(which makes so much trouble for us Celts) re- 


DONA LUISA 


3 


sponded strongly to the appeal of my environment. 
Doha Luisa! The distant strains of music seemed 
to thrum that soft name into my brain. 

I swung my feet to the ground, stood up and 
stretched myself. 

“Where is the lady?” I demanded. “In the 
sitting-room?” 

“No, sir,” replied the Japanese. “In the gar¬ 
den!” 

More and more romantic! Had some lovely 
senorita, in high comb and mantilla, been inflamed 
by a chance sight of the Ingles as I walked through 
the grass-grown streets of the city with John Bard 
that morning, and pursued me to my host’s gar¬ 
dens to declare her love? The thought amused 
me, and I smiled. Yet I don’t mind admitting 
that, on my way through the sitting-room in 
Akawa’s wake, I glanced at a mirror and noted 
with satisfaction that my white drill was spotless, 
and my hair smooth. I adjusted my tie and with 
that little touch of swagger which the prospect of 
a romantic rendezvous imparts to the gait of the 
most modest of us men, I passed out of the room 
to the corridor which led to the door into the 
gardens. 

The passage was brightly lit, so that, on emerg¬ 
ing into the darkness again, my eyes were daz¬ 
zled. At first I could discern only a vast black 
shape. But presently I made out the generous 


4 ISLAND GOLD 

proportions of an enormously stout, coal-black 
negress. 

She was wearing a torn and filthy cotton dress 
and about her head was bound a spotted pink-and- 
white handkerchief. With her vast bosom and 
ample span of hip she looked almost as broad as 
she was long. On seeing me she bobbed. 

“You’m Senor Comandante?” she asked in 
English in her soft negro voice. 

“Yes,” I replied, rather taken aback by this 
droll apparition. “What did you want with me?” 

“I has a letter for you, suh!” 

She plunged a brown hand into the unfathom¬ 
able depths of her opulent corsage. 

“From Dona Luisa?” I asked expectantly. 

The negress stopped her groping and grinned 
up at me with flashing teeth. Her eyeballs glis¬ 
tened white as her face lit up with a broad smile. 
Then she tapped herself with a grimy paw. 

“/ is Dona Luisa!” she announced with pride. 

I staggered beneath the shock of this revelation. 
My vision of a sloe-eyed damsel in a mantilla 
vanished in smoke. 

“I has a fine Spanish name,” remarked the 
lady, resuming her spasmodic searchings of her 
person, “but I wus riz in N’Awleans. That’s how 
I talks English so good! Ah!” 

With a grunt she fished out a folded sheet of 
dirty note-paper and handed it to me. 


DOfiA LUISA 


5 


“You’re certain this is meant for me?” I asked, 
racking my brains to recall who was likely to send 
me messages by such an intermediary and at such 
an hour. 

“I sure is!” responded Doha Luisa with 
authority. 

Stepping back into the lighted corridor I 
unfolded the note and read: 

To Major Desmond Okeivood , D.S.O.: 

Do you remember the beach-comber to whom you did 
a good turn at San Salvador a few weeks back? I now 
believe I am in a position to repay it if you will accom¬ 
pany the bearer of this note. I wish to see you most 
urgently, but I am too ill to come to you. Don’t dis¬ 
miss this note as merely an ingenious attempt on my 
part to raise the wind. Perhaps, by the time you have 
received it, I shall have already escaped from the dis¬ 
grace and infamy of my present existence. Therefore 
come at once, I beg you. 

And make haste. 

The note was written in pencil in rather a shaky 
hand. There was no signature. But I remem¬ 
bered the writer perfectly, and his signature 
would have availed me nothing; for I never knew 
his name. 

Our meeting happened thus. I was visiting the 
jail at San Salvador and in the prison yard I 
remarked among the shambling gang of prisoners 
taking exercise a pallid, hollow-eyed creature 
whose twitching mouth and fluttering hands be- 


6 


ISLAND GOLD 


trayed the habitual drunkard recovering from a 
bout. I should have dismissed this scarecrow 
figure from my mind, only, suddenly evading the 
little brown warder, he plucked me by the coat 
and cried: 

“If you’re a sahib , man, you’ll get me out of 
this hell!” 

He spoke in English and there was a refined 
note in his voice which, coupled with the haggard 
expression of his face, decided me to enquire into 
his case. I discovered that the man, as, indeed, he 
had as good as avowed himself in the letter, was a 
beach-comber, a drunken wastrel, a dope fiend. 
In short, he was one of the unemployable, and 
every consulate in the Central Americas was 
closed to him. But he was an Englishman; more, 
by birth an English gentleman. One of the officials 
at our consulate told me that he was, undoubtedly, 
of good family. 

Well, one doesn’t like to think of one of one’s 
own kith and kin locked up with a lot of coffee- 
coloured cut-throats among the cockroaches and 
less amiable insects of a Dago calaboose. So I 
interested myself in Friend Beach-Comber and he 
was set free. His incarceration was the result of 
a tradesman’s plaint and a few dollars secured his 
release. A few more, as it appeared in the upshot, 
had ensured his lasting gratitude; for I gave him 
a ten-dollar bill to see him on his way, the State 


DOftA LUISA 


7 


stipulating, as a condition of his liberation, that 
he should leave the city forthwith. 

The outcast’s letter was in mv hand. I looked 
at Doha Luisa and hesitated. Would it not be 
simpler to give the woman a couple of dollars and 
send her about her business? Surely this note was 
nothing more than a subterfuge to obtain a further 
“loan” with which to buy drink or drugs — the 
dividing line between the two is none too clearly 
defined in the Central Americas. 

But I found myself thinking of the beach¬ 
comber’s eyes. I recalled a certain wistfulness, a 
sort of lonely dignity, in their mute appeal. I 
glanced through the note a second time. I rather 
liked its independent tone. So in the end I bade 
the woman wait while I fetched my hat. But as I 
took down my panama from its peg I paused an 
instant, then running into my room picked my old 
automatic out of my dressing-case and slid it into 
my jacket pocket. I had long since learnt the 
lesson of the Secret Service that a man may only 
once forget to carry arms. 

As soon as I stepped out into the gardens, the 
old negress waddled off down the path, her bare 
feet pattering almost noiselessly on the hard earth. 
She made no further effort at conversation; but 
with a swiftness surprising in one of her prodi¬ 
gious bulk padded rapidly through the scented 
night down the hill towards the winking lights of 



8 


ISLAND GOLD 


the port. As we left the pleasant height on which 
John Bard’s bungalow stood, I missed the cooling 
night breeze off the Pacific. The air grew closer. 
It was steamy, and soon I was drenched with per¬ 
spiration. 

Dona Luisa skirted the quays softly lapped by 
the sluggish, phosphorescent water, and plunged 
into a network of small streets fringed by little 
yellow houses. Most of them were in darkness; 
for it was getting late, but here and there a shaft 
of golden light shining through a heart-shaped 
opening cut in the shutters fell athwart the cob¬ 
bled roadway. There was something subtly evil, 
something louche , about the quarter. From be¬ 
hind the barred and bolted windows of one such 
shuttered house came strains of music, fast and 
furious, endlessly repeated, accompanied by the 
rhythmic stamp of a Spanish dance and the smart 
click of castanets. Over the door a red light 
glowed dully. . . . 

But presently we left the purlieus of the port, 
and after passing a long block of warehouses, 
black and forbidding, came upon a kind of town¬ 
ship of tumbledown wooden cabins on the out¬ 
skirts of the city. The stifling air was now heavy 
with all manner of evil odours; and heaps of 
refuse, dumped in the broken roadway, reeked 
in the hot night. The houses were the merest 
shanties, most of them in a dilapidated condition. 


DONA LUISA 


9 


But the place swarmed with life. Black faces 
grinned at the unglazed casements; dark figures 
hurried to and fro; while from many cabins came 
chattering voices raised high in laughter or dis¬ 
pute. In the distance a native drum throbbed 
incessantly. To me it was like entering an Afri¬ 
can village. I knew we were in the negro quarter 
of the city. 

Suddenly Dona Luisa stopped, and when I was 
beside her said in a low voice, “We’m mos’ 
there!” — and struck off down a narrow lane. 

Somewhere behind one of the shacks, in a full, 
mellow tenor, a man, hidden by the night, was 
singing to the soft tinkling accompaniment of a 
guitar. He sang in Spanish and I caught a snatch 
of the haunting refrain: 

“Se murio, y sobre su cara 
Un panuelito le heche ...” 

But the next moment the negress, after fumbling 
with a key, pushed me through a big door, and 
the rest of the song was lost in the slamming of a 
great beam she fixed across it. The door gave 
access to a little square yard with adobe walls, 
an open shed along one side, a low shanty along 
the other. Dona Luisa pushed at a small wooden 
door in the wall of the shanty. Instantly a thin, 
quavering voice called out in English: 

“Have you brought him?” 


10 


ISLAND GOLD 


The woman murmured some inaudible reply, 
and the voice went on: 

“Have you barred the door? Then send him 
in! And you, get out and leave us alone!” 

With a little resigned shrug of the shoulders, 
the negress stepped back into the yard and pushed 
me into the cabin. 


CHAPTER II 


IN WHICH A GENTLEMAN PAYS HIS DEBT 

The first thing I saw on entering the room was my 
beach-comber; for the rushlight, which was the 
cabin’s sole illumination, stood on a soap-box 
beside the couch on which the outcast lay. 
Dressed in a shrunken and dirty cotton suit, he 
was propped up against the rough mud wall, a ■ 
grimy and threadbare wrap thrown across his 
knees. Despite the awful stuffiness of the place, 
he shivered beneath this ragged coverlet, although 
his face and chest glistened with perspiration. 

Once upon a time, I judged, as I measured him 
with my eye, he must have been a fine figure of a 
man. Though now coarse and bloated with white 
and flabby flesh, it could easily be seen that he was 
tall beyond the ordinary with the narrow hips of 
the athlete. His eyes were deeply sunk in his 
head; and in them flickered wanly that strange, 
restless light which one sees so often in the faces 
of those whom Death is soon to claim. Even 
amid the ravages which undernourishment, drink, 
and drugs had made in his features, the influence 
of gentle birth might yet be marked in the straight, 
firm pencilling of the eyebrows and the well- 


12 


ISLAND GOLD 


shaped, aquiline nose. I thought the man looked 
dreadfully ill, and I noted about nose and mouth 
that pinched look which can never deceive. 

The whole shack appeared to consist of the one 
room in which I found myself. It was pitiably 
bare. A table, on which stood some unappetiz¬ 
ing remnants of food, was set against the wall 
beneath the unglazed window which faced the sick 
man’s couch. A broken stool and a couple of 
soap-boxes, one furnished with a tin basin and a 
petrol can of water, completed the furniture. 

“There’s a bar to go across the door,” said a 
weak voice from the comer where the sick man 
lay; “would you be good enough to put it down? 
I don’t want us to be disturbed ...” 

He cast an apprehensive glance at the window. 
I fitted the rough beam across the door and ap¬ 
proached the couch. It was merely a bed of 
maize stalks. 

“You’re very ill, I’m afraid,” I said, pulling 
over one of the boxes and seating myself by the 
Englishman. “Have you seen a doctor?” 

The vagrant waved his hand in a deprecatory 
manner. 

“My dear fellow,” he said — and again I noted 
the refinement in his voice — “no sawbones can 
help me. I never held with them much anyway. 
Luisa got paid to-day — she washes at Bard’s, 
you know (it was she who told me you were here) 


A GENTLEMAN PAYS HIS DEBT 13 


— and so I’ve got some medicine . . . ” — he 
touched a little pannikin which stood on the floor 
at his side — “it’s all that keeps me alive now that 
I can’t get the ‘snow’!” 

I recognized the name which the drug traffic 
gives to cocaine. 

The sick man was rent by a spasm of coughing. 

“It’s paradoxical,” he gasped out presently, 
“but the more I take of my life-giving elixir here, 
the quicker the end will come. All I live for now, 
it seems to me, is to shorten as much as possible 
the intervals between the bouts.” 

I’ve seen something in my time of the cynical 
resignation of your chronic drunkard. So I 
wasted no good advice on the poor devil, but held 
my peace while he swallowed a mouthful from the 
pannikin at his elbow. 

“You went out of your way to do me a good 
turn once, Okewood,” he said, setting the vessel 
down and wiping his mouth on his soiled sleeve. 
“I know your name, you see. I made some 
enquiries about you before they ran me out of San 
Salvador. You got a D.S.O. in the war, I think?” 

“They gave away so many!” I said idiotically. 
But that sort of remark always engenders an 
idiotic reply. 

“No, no,” he insisted. “Yours was one of the 
right ones, Okewood: I can see that by looking 
at you. You’re the real type of British officer. 


14 


ISLAND GOLD 


And, though you may not think it to see me now, 
I know what I’m talking about. You fellows had 
your chance in the war and, by Gad, sir, some of 
you took it ” 

I knew he was an Army man, and I said so. 

He nodded. 

“Cavalry,” he answered. “You might be in 
the cavalry, too, by your build!” 

I told him I was a field-gunner — or used to be, 
and then I asked him his name. 

He smiled wanly at that. 

“No names, no court-martials!” he quoted. 

He drank from his pannikin again. 

“Call me Adams,” he said. 

There was a moment’s silence. The sick man 
moved restlessly about on his rustling couch and 
I heard his teeth rattle in his head. Outside, the 
pulsating life of the negro quarter shattered the 
brooding stillness of the tropical night. The 
sound of low, full-throated laughter, mingling 
with the jangling of guitars, drifted up from the 
lane. 

“Broken as a Major,” the sick man said 
abruptly. “A bad business, very. Yes, they 
jailed me over it. And when I came out it was 
to find every man’s hand against me. It’s been 
against me ever since! Ah, it’s a bad thing to 
make an enemy of England! When I think of 
the humble pie I’ve eaten from some of these 


A GENTLEMAN PAYS HIS DEBT 15 


blasted counter-jumping finicking consuls of ours 
along this coast, only to be thrown out of doors at 
last by their Dago servants! Once go down and 
out in England, and God help you! You’ll never 
come back! Ah! it’s not your own folk who’ll 
lend you a hand then. It’s the humble people, 
like Luisa here on whom I sponge, who keeps me, 
Okewood, who is proud to keep me ...” 

His voice quavered and broke. Tears welled 
up in his sunken eyes. One hates to see a man 
break down, so I looked away. And the beach¬ 
comber went to his pannikin for solace. 

“That day at the calaboose at San Salvador,” 
he said presently, “I wanted to tell you who I was. 
Twenty-five years ago I buried my real name, but 
what you did for me . . . well, it was a white 
thing to do. I wanted to say to you: Race tells, 
Sir! You have helped one of your own breed 
and upbringing. It shall be written in our family 
records that Such-a-one (meaning myself) of 
Blank in the County of So-and-So, being in sore 
distress in the hands of the foreigner, was suc¬ 
coured by the chivalrous intervention of Major 
Desmond Okewood.” 

He sighed, then added: 

“But I doubt if you would have understood my 
meaning!” 

I found myself becoming extraordinarily inter¬ 
ested in this grotesque wastrel, who, though sunk 


16 


ISLAND GOLD 


to the lowest depths a man may touch, managed to 
cling so desperately to his pride of birth. 

The outcast spoke again. 

“I mustn’t waste your time. But it’s so rare to 
find one of my own world to talk to. Listen to 
me, now! You stood up for me at San Salvador 
and in return . . . You’re not a rich man, 
Okewood?” 

I laughed. 

“I have to work for my living, Adams,” I 
answered. 

“Good, good! Then you will appreciate the 
more the fortune I am going to put in your way. 
An Eldorado, to make you rich beyond the dreams 
of ... ” 

He broke off, racked by a terrible fit of cough¬ 
ing. The spasm left him weak and gasping. 

His talk about fortunes and the rest made me 
think he was a trifle light-headed. So I made to 
rise from my seat. 

“You’re talking too much,” I said soothingly. 
“I guess I’ll leave you now and come back another 
day!” 

But the beach-comber thrust out a hand — such 
a thin and wasted hand!—and clutched my 
sleeve. He could not speak for the moment, but 
he cast me a despairing look eloquent in its 
appeal to me to stay. 

“A fortune,” he gasped out when his breath 


A GENTLEMAN PAYS HIS DEBT 17 


began to come back to him. “I’ll make you rich! 
I want to show my gratitude to the man who knows 
what is due to a . . . a . . .a gentleman!” 

He fell back with livid face. I raised his head 
and held the pannikin to his lips. It was half 
full of some terrible-looking dark brown liquor. 
He drank a little, then lay back with closed eyes. 
He lay so still that, with his sunken eyes and 
hollow cheeks, you might have taken him for a 
corpse. 

In a little while he was better and spoke again. 

“Okewood,” he said — and this time his voice 
was hardly above a whisper — “I believe I know 
where treasure’s hid. For more than a year now 
I’ve carried my secret round with me waiting for 
the chance to get back there, waiting to find the 
partner I could trust. And now Fate (with whom 
I’ve quarrelled bitterly all my life) has played 
me a dirty trick to finish up. I’ve found my 
partner, when it’s too late for me to share!” 

He relapsed into silence again. His head 
drooped and his eyes were closed so that, for the 
moment, I thought he had fainted. But presently 
he asked abruptly: 

“Have you ever heard of Cock Island?” 

“Cock Island?” I repeated. “No, I don’t 
think so. Where is it?” 

“In the Pacific, about four hundred miles out 
at sea. Many months ago — the summer after 




18 


ISLAND GOLD 


the armistice it was — I was serving before the 
mast in a Dutch schooner — the Huis-ten-Bosch , 
her name was. I signed on at Papeete to run to 
Callao with a cargo of copra. The crew were all 
Kanakas — natives, you know — except for one 
other man who signed on with me — Dutchy, they 
called him. We were on the beach together in 
Tahiti ...” 

His fit of weakness seemed to have passed and 
his voice grew stronger and his eyes brighter as 
he proceeded with his tale. 

66 Well, something went amiss with our fresh 
water supply,” he went on, “so we laid off at Cock 
Island to replenish our casks. It was a jolly little 
place — you know the sort of thing, all wavy 
cocoanut palms and wooded peaks running up 
steeply from the foreshore. And, of course, the 
very dickens of a surf bar. The skipper sent me 
and Dutchy with a gang of Kanakas to fill up with 
water. We found a way in through the bar and, 
having landed, set the Kanakas to work to fill the 
casks at a fine spring of water, cold and clear, 
which fell from the hillside. Then Dutchy and 
I had a look round. 

“I had asked our old man — the captain, you 
know — about Cock Island. He had told me 
that, according to the Sailing Directions, it was 
uninhabited. Therefore, as Dutchy and I were 
pushing our way through the undergrowth to get 


A GENTLEMAN PAYS HIS DEBT 19 


to the high central upland, we were a bit taken 
aback to come upon a grave in a clearing. 

“It was a regular grave cut out of the rough 
grass with a mound and a cross all shipshape and 
proper. The cross, which was merely two bits of 
stout deal lashed together with wire, was a bit 
weather-beaten and polished smooth by the sand 
blown against it. It had no inscription. Against 
the cross a small mirror was propped up, while in 
front of it stood a bottle half embedded in the 
earth. The bottle contained some writing on a 
piece of folded oil-silk.” 

“We used to bury fellows that way in France,” 
I remarked. “One stuck the name and partic¬ 
ulars on a piece of paper and shoved it in a bottle 
until they had time to put a cross up, don’t you 
know?” 

“I had no idea what this was,” said the beach¬ 
comber. “The writing was a fearful scrawl and 
rather faint at that. I couldn’t make head or tail 
of it. I just slipped it into my pocket, meaning to 
have a look at it another time. While I had been 
examining the grave, the fellow with me, the man 
we called Dutchy, had been rooting about in the 
clearing. Presently he emerged from behind a 
bush with a whole collection of junk which he laid 
on the turf at my feet. There was an old news¬ 
paper, a piece of dirty packing-paper, and a 
cigar-box. 


20 


ISLAND GOLD 


“He was a queer chap, this Dutchy. We never 
could quite make him out. Personally, I thought 
he wasn’t all there. He spoke very rarely, but 
when he opened his lips he talked some kind of 
German-American double Dutch. He was very 
taciturn: the sort of man, you know, who gives no 
confidences and invites none. That was really 
what attracted him to me when we chummed up on 
the beach at Papeete. We went through a rough 
time there together, too! ...” 

The sick man broke off musingly. Then the 
cough took him again, and it was some minutes 
before he resumed speaking. 

“Dutchy laid all this junk out in front of me 
rather like a dog bringing you a stick you’ve 
thrown it. Then he said: 

“ 4 Dat bunch o’ toughs from San Salvador bin 
here!’ 

“Dutchy’s conversational bursts generally 
opened enigmatically, and I knew from experi¬ 
ence that it was no use interrupting him to ask for 
enlightenment. One could only hope it might 
come in due course. 

“Dutchy lifted up the newspaper. 

4 4 De Heraldo of San Salvador of nineteen 
eighteen — you see de date, March Seventeen?’ 

“He raised up the piece of wrapping-paper. 

44 4 You savvy Jose Garcia’s store at San Sal¬ 
vador?’ 


A GENTLEMAN PAYS HIS DEBT 21 


“(I should say I did, Okewood. He was the 
swine that jugged me over his rotten bill!) 

“ ‘Dis from Garcia’s store! You see de name 
printed on it?’ 

“Finally he picked up the cigar-box and open¬ 
ing it displayed a row of mouldy cigars with a 
yellow band. 

“ ‘Black Pablo!’ he said. 

“ ‘How do you mean, Dutchy?’ I asked. 

“ ‘Dere ain’t but one man in San Salvador 
smoke dese ceegyars,’ he answered, ‘and dat’s 
Black Pablo. Jose Garcia smuggles dem in 
express for him. Dis sure is fonny!’ 

“He broke into a fit of laughter, dribbling a 
good deal. 

“ ‘Dis um de l’il’ island!’ he exclaimed and 
went off again. 

“ ‘But who is Black Pablo?’ I demanded. ‘Is 
he the head of this gang?’ 

“‘Is he . . . hell!’ cried Dutchy. ‘Dere 

ain’t no one amounts to a row o’ beans since El 
Cojo come along! Black Pablo, Neque, Mahon 
. . . dere’s not one of them dawg-gorn four- 
flushers dare open deir face when El Cojo’s round. 
Dey shoot off deir mouth to me ’bout deir l’il’ 
island. Pretty Goddam mysterious ’bout it, too. 
No blab to Dutchy, dey say. El Cojo won’t have 
it. But Dutchy knows. Blarst me sowl . . . ’ 

“Dutchy had a great flow of language. And he 


22 


ISLAND GOLD 


let it rip as he told me the way he meant to crow 
over El Cojo and his gang when he got back to 
San Salvador.” 

Adams had warmed to his story and a little red 
had crept into his cheeks. He was an excellent 
raconteur and he seemed to enjoy reproducing the 
extraordinary lingo of his friend “Dutchy.” 

“We rowed over to the ship again,” he resumed, 
“and as soon as I had a moment alone I had 
another look at the writing on the oil-silk. But I 
could make nothing of it. I thought I’d keep it, 
though, just for luck, so I strung it round my neck 
and forgot all about it until one day in the cal¬ 
aboose at San Salvador I overheard a very curious 
conversation. Can you reach the pannikin? 
Thanks!” 

The outcast drank and wiped his mouth on the 
back of his dirty white cuff. 

“You know the way they lock one up in these 
Dago jails — all in a common room together. 
Well, a day or two after I got in, I was sitting on 
the floor with my back against the wall taking a 
bit of a siesta when suddenly I heard the name 
‘Neque.’ I recollected at once that Dutchy had 
spoken of ‘Neque’ as one of El Cojo’s gang, 
because once, years ago, I had a Spanish pal 
whose nickname was ‘Neque’ — I used to play 
polo with him in Madrid — and the name was 
familiar to me. 


A GENTLEMAN PAYS HIS DEBT 23 


“I opened my eyes and saw two of the prisoners 
sitting on the floor within a yard of me talking 
together in Spanish. Everybody else was asleep. 
The one whom I discovered to be Neque was a 
young fellow of about twenty-five, very slim and 
wiry. His companion was a dark man with a 
yellow face, a broken nose, and a patch over one 
eye. I closed my eyes quickly again and pre¬ 
tended to be asleep. 

66 ‘Such accursed luck!’ the younger man said; 
‘five hundred thousand dollars in gold and you 
and I will not be there to share it!’ 

“ ‘CarajoF replied the fat man, ‘but who shall 
say it is there?’ 

“ ‘Imbecile!’ exclaimed Neque, ‘I was with El 
Cojo when he examined the Kanaka. Did not 
this Kanaka sail in the ship which brought the 
foreigner and the gold to Cock Island? He was 
one of those, this Kanaka, who survived the influ¬ 
enza sickness that swept the vessel. He told El 
Cojo — I, Neque, heard it with my own ears — 
how the foreigner was landed alone with the gold, 
how he remained by himself on the island for two 
days, and how, when the Kanakas rowed in from 
the ship to fetch him, they found him with death 
on his face — the mauve death, you and I have 
seen it per Dios , eh? — And the boxes of gold 
gone! The foreigner gave them a bottle with a 
writing in it, bidding them swear that they would 


24 


ISLAND GOLD 


put it on his grave or he would haunt them. Then 
he died, and the Kanakas buried him, and having 
placed this object on the grave as he had ordered, 
fled from the island in the ship!’ 

“The fat man spat. ‘Who shall believe a 
Kanaka?’ he said contemptuously. 

“ ‘The foreigner was the only white man with 
these natives,’ argued Neque. ‘They feared him, 
and they did as he bade them lest his spirit should 
torment them. Besides, the grave has been seen 
on the island since . . . ’ 

“At that the fat man woke up and became 
interested. 

“ ‘Never!’ he exclaimed in astonishment. 

“And then Neque told him of a conversation 
El Cojo had had with a ‘mad seaman,’ in whom it 
was not difficult to recognize Dutchy, who had 
landed with a companion from a Dutch schooner 
and had seen the grave and on it a bottle. The 
other man, the ‘loco’ (madman) had said, had 
taken out of the bottle a piece of writing. 

“ ‘This other man,’ questioned his companion, 
‘who was he?’ 

“ ‘An Ingles ,’ replied Neque, ‘but the mad 
seaman did not know his name and had not seen 
him since they had landed.’ 

“At that the fat man spat again. 

“ ‘Bah!’ he said, ‘these locitos are cunning. 
There was no Ingles. The mad seaman has that 


A GENTLEMAN PAYS HIS DEBT 25 


writing which tells where the gold lies as sure as 
men call me Black Pablo . . .’ 

“The name brought back to me Cock Island in 
a flash; I seemed to see Dutchy, with his puzzled, 
woe-begone expression, holding a handful of 
mouldy cigars, the cigars that Jose Garcia im¬ 
ported for Black Pablo. And, looking at the 
fellow with his single eye and his hideous twisted 
nose, I couldn’t help feeling glad, my friend, that 
he doubted my existence ...” 

The beach-comber stopped and looked at me. 
Then he thrust a lean hand inside the bosom of 
his ragged jacket. 

“You’ve now heard the tale for what it’s worth, 
Okewood,” said he, “and here’s that dead man’s 
message! Take good care of it! It may mean 
a fortune for you! ...” 

He pulled out a greasy package which hung 
on a cord round his neck. He unfastened the cord 
and handed me a flat, narrow parcel. I was 
going to open it; but he stayed my hand. 

“Not here!” he enjoined in a low voice. Then, 
with a wistful smile, he added: 

“I’m afraid it’s a dangerous present I’m making 
you, old man!” 

“Why do you say that?” I demanded. 

The sick man turned his head and looked at the 
unglazed window protected only by a pair of 
rough-carpentered wooden shutters. In the street 


26 


ISLAND GOLD 


outside some one was lightly thrumming a guitar. 
Now and then came the sound of soft laughter. 
Otherwise the negro village had sunk to rest. All 
was still without, and the plaintive chords re¬ 
sounded distinctly through the hot night. 

“A week after I was shipped from San Sal¬ 
vador,” he said, “they found Dutchy’s body in 
the dock with a noose round his neck. Poor old 
Dutchy who never harmed anybody! Listen!” 

The rich, full-throated tenor voice, which I had 
heard as I was following Doha Luisa through the 
negro quarter, suddenly burst into song quite close 
at hand. On a sad and plaintive melody it sang 
with a liquid enunciation which made every word 
distinct: 


“»Se murio, y sobre su car a 
Un panuelito le heche, 

Por que no toque la tierra 
Esa bocca que yo bese!” 

The beach-comber held up his hand as the 
melody died away on a minor key. 

“It is time for you to go!” he whispered. “The 
door over there opposite the one by which you 
came in leads to the yard at the back. Cross the 
yard, take the path through the plantation, bear 
always to the right, and you will strike the main 
road to the docks. Go as quietly as you can and 
don’t dawdle on the way . . . Ah!” 


A GENTLEMAN PAYS HIS DEBT 27 


Again the singer in the lane sent his plaintive 
melody soaring to the stars. He chanted his little 
verse through once more. Feebly, the sick man 
beat time with his hand. 

“He’s been singing on and off all the evening, 
Okewood,” he murmured. “Always the same 
song. I Englished it while I was waiting for you. 
Listen!” 

In a soft, quavering voice he whispered rather 
than sang: 

“She died, and on her face 
1 laid a napkin fine, 

Lest the cold earth should touch 
Those lips I pressed to mine ...” 

“Ah!” he sighed as the song died away and 
silence fell on us once more; “when the hour 
strikes for me, Okewood, there’ll be no one, 
except, maybe, old Mammie Luisa there, to lay a 
pretty thought like that in my coffin!” 

He held out his hand. 

“Now go!” he bade me. “And good luck go 
with you!” 

I took his proffered hand. 

“I will come again and see you, Adams,” said I. 
“I expect you’ll want to hear what I’ve made of 
the message!” 

He was looking at me whimsically. 

“No, Okewood,” he said, shaking his head, 
“I’m thinking we shan’t meet again!” 


28 


ISLAND GOLD 


I was thinking the same; for, in truth, the man 
looked at death’s door. 

The unseen singer had attacked another verse. 

“Mira si seria bella ...” 

The opening words came resonantly to me as 
I quietly stole from the room. At the door I 
turned for a last look at the beach-comber. The 
candle was guttering away and its trembling light 
illuminated only the pinched, worn features and 
the sombre, suffering eyes. The grossness of that 
broken body was mercifully swallowed up in the 
shadows. To and fro across the candle’s feeble 
gleam the hands moved in cadence with the 
song. . . . 


CHAPTER III 


THE MESSAGE 

I WAS loath to leave him. What he had told njfc of 
the fate of his friend, the man called Dutchy, made 
me feel a trifle apprehensive of his own safety. 
And I had a kind of feeling that, for all his ap¬ 
parent calm, he was frightened. On looking back 
at my interview that night with the beach-comber 
in his wretched shack, I realize there must have 
been something unusually sweet about his person¬ 
ality. Its flavour seemed to linger; for I left him, 
as I have said, reluctantly, and I have thought of 
him many times since. 

The back door led straight into a kind of open 
shed which, from the stove and stacked-up wood- 
pile, I judged to be Dona Luisa’s cooking-place. 
The shed gave on a dusty yard, small and narrow, 
smelling horribly of poultry, with a high mud 
wall. In this wall I saw— for the moonlight made 
everything as bright as day — a wooden door. 
On reaching it I found that it was locked. 

For a moment I had a mind to go back to the 
front and home by the way I had come. But I 
felt doubtful as to whether I should be able to 


30 


ISLAND GOLD 


follow in the opposite direction the intricate route 
by which Doha Luisa had brought me, and I had 
no desire to be lost in the negro quarter at night. 
So without much ado I scaled the mud wall and, 
dropping to earth on the other side, found myself 
in the plantation of which the beach-comber had 
spoken. 

Here I was alone with the noises of the tropical 
night. Of human beings there was neither sound 
nor sign. However, I had Adams’s directions 
firmly in my head; and by following them to the 
letter came back at last without incident, but very 
hot and sticky, to John Bard’s bungalow. 

The verandah was empty, the house very quiet. 
I looked at my watch. It was half-past eleven. 
Bard had gone down to the Club for his usual 
evening rubber of bridge, but I had excused my¬ 
self, for I had meant to write letters. I knew it 
would be at least an hour before Bard returned; 
for he was a late bird. So I went through to my 
room, had a sponge down, and changed into 
pyjamas and made my way to the living-room. 

It was a delightfully airy apartment, one side, 
glazed, opening on to the verandah, the other 
walls distempered a pale green. There were native 
mats on the floor and comfortable chairs stood 
about the room. I went over to the writing-desk 
in one corner, switched on the reading-lamp, and 
lit a cigar. Then I pulled out of my pocket the 


THE MESSAGE 31 

package which I had received from the beach¬ 
comber. 

The outer covering was a piece of greasy 
flannel which looked as if it had been tom off 
an old shirt. With my knife I slit up the stitches 
— it had been lightly tacked across with thread — 
and pulled out a narrow pad of oil-silk folded 
once across. Spread out, it made a piece roughly 
about nine inches long by six wide. Across it 
stood written some lines hastily scribbled in 
indelible pencil. The hand was crabbed and 
irregular, the writing indistinct and, in some 
places, almost completely effaced. But I could 
distinguish enough to recognize that both the hand 
and the words were German. 

At this I felt my pulse quicken. A faint in¬ 
stinct of the chase began to stir in my blood. 
For three long months I had dawdled deliciously; 
for, in turning my face towards the sunshine of 
the New World, I had deliberately turned my 
back on the thrills and disappointments, the 
dangers and the ennuis, of the Secret Service. 
This almost undecipherable scrawl, with here and 
there a German word clearly protruding itself (I 
could read “Kiel” and “Siehst Du ”), and, above 
all, the indelible pencil, in whose pale mauve 
character gallant young men wrote the real history 
of the war, brought back to me with vivid clear¬ 
ness memorable moments of those half-forgotten 


32 


ISLAND GOLD 


campaigning days. I fumbled in a drawer of the 
desk for Bard’s big magnifying-glass, drew up my 
chair, and set myself stolidly — as I had so often 
done in the past!—to the deciphering of what 
is in all circumstances, easily the most illegible 
handwriting in the world. 

In truth, no writing is harder to read than the 
German. In his intercourse with the foreigner, 
the brother Boche, it is true, not infrequently 
employs the Latin character. But, for communi¬ 
cations among themselves, the Germans continue 
to use their own damnable hieroglyphics. I have 
often wondered to see how the most unintelligent 
German will read off with ease a closely written 
scrawl of German handwriting looking as though 
a spider, after taking an ink-bath, had jazzed up 
and down the page. 

This particular specimen of the Hun fist was 
a proper Chinese puzzle. Where in places it was 
beginning to be decipherable, the heavy indelible 
ink had run (under the influence of damp, I sup¬ 
pose), and where the writing was not a mass of 
smears, it was illegible in a degree to make one 
despair. 

Well, I got down to it properly. My knowledge 
of German (which I know about as well as Eng¬ 
lish) was a great help. Finally, with the assist¬ 
ance of Bard’s magnifying-glass, a deduction here 
and a guess there, after nearly an hour’s hard 


THE MESSAGE 


33 


work, I produced what was, as nearly as I could 
make it, an accurate version of the original. My 
greatest triumph lay, I think, in establishing the 
fact that an unusually baffling row of cryptic signs 
at the bottom of the thing was, in reality, four 
bars of music. 

But when I had set it all down (on a sheet of 
John Bard’s expensive glazed note-paper), I 
scratched my head, and, despite my aching eyes, 
took another good look at the original. For I 
could make no sense of the writing at all. 

The message (for such it seemed to be) was 
signed with the single letter “U.” And this is 
what I got: 

Mittag. 18 - 11 - 18 . 

Flimmer, flimmer, viel 

Die Garnison von Kiel 

Mit Kompass dann am bestem 

Denk’ an den Ordensfesten 

Am Zuckerhut vorbei 

Siehst Du die Lorelei 

Und magst Du Sehatzchen gern 






* 


fr~ 

~w 



u 

Z rr-1-—=xr- w .—L 



- . . . . ,.J 


u. 


Blankly I stared at this doggerel. Then I took 
down from the rack another sheet of paper and 

jotted down a rough Engl ish translation: _ 

* Reproduced by permission of B. Feldmann & Co. 


























34 


ISLAND GOLD 


Noon. 18-11-18. 

Flash, flash, much 

The garrison of Kiel 

Then with the compass is best 

Think of the Feast of Orders 

Past the Sugar-Loaf 

You’ll see the Lorelei 

And if you desire the sweetheart 

[Bars of music] 

u* 

Leaning back in my chair, I cast my mind over 
the strange tale I had heard that night from 
Adams, the story whispered in the fierce noon¬ 
day heat of the calaboose of San Salvador: of 
the ship which had brought the solitary white man 
and his gold out of the Unknown to Cock Island; 
of the man’s death and of the message he 
had left so oddly behind him. And lest any one 
should think that I was paying too much heed to 
a rambling yarn told me at second-hand by a 
drunken outcast, a yarn, moreover, based on a 
statement by a Kanaka deck-hand, let me say 
at once that my whole training in the Intelligence 
had taught me never to reject any statement, how¬ 
ever improbable it sounded, until it had failed to 
withstand an elaborate series of tests. Indeed, 
the major fascination of this poorly paid and 
sometimes dangerous profession of ours is the 
rare delight of seeing emerge, out of some seem¬ 
ingly impossible tale, a solid basis of fact. 


THE MESSAGE 


35 


And, behind the beach-comber’s rambling story, 
there were certain solid facts which, from the 
moment of discovering that the message was in 
German, I could not afford to neglect. When 
William the Second launched the World War like 
a big stone dropped in a pond, the ripples reached 
to the uttermost ends of the earth. In many a 
lonely island of the Seven Seas there had been, 
I knew, mysterious comings and goings, connected 
with gun-running, submarine work, and dark con¬ 
spiracies of all kinds. Did this scrap of stained 
oil-silk, picked off a lonely grave in the Southern 
Seas, lead back to a secret adventure of this kind? 
I decided that it might. 

I turned to the message again. It was obviously 
written by a German and for a German, it was 
fair to presume . . .for some specific German, 
furthermore, who would hold the key to the con¬ 
ventional code in which this message was almost 
certainly written. Consequently, the solitary 
stranger of Cock Island had expected to meet 
a German on the island; ergo, the island was a 
meeting-place, some secret rendezvous of the busy 
German conspirators in the war. This was borne 
out by the remarkable evidence laid before Adams 
by Dutchy on their visit to Cock Island to prove 
that some gang of desperadoes from San Salvador 
had previously been there. The names mentioned 
by Dutchy were undoubtedly Spanish — Black 


36 


ISLAND GOLD 


Pablo and Neque, for instance — but there might 
have been Germans with them. El Cojo was also 
Spanish, to judge by the name; but apparently he 
had put in an appearance later and had not visited 
the island. 

To what did the message refer? What would 
the solitary German, with the ha.nd of Death at his 
throat, wish to tell the man whom he was to have 
met? Might it not be, as Adams had said, the 
whereabouts of the gold brought to the island by 
the Unknown, which, from the conversation of 
Adams’s fellow prisoners at the calaboose, was 
apparently still on the island? Various geo¬ 
graphical indications in the message — the Sugar- 
Loaf, the Lorelei (the latter the well-known crag 
on the Rhine), seemed to confirm this. 

But the message had remained in its bottle on 
the grave until, months later, Adams and Dutchy 
had found it. It was, therefore, to be presumed 
that the unknown German’s friend, probably 
some one in El Cojo’s gang, had not kept the 
appointment. Why? 

I stared in perplexity at the dead man’s scrawl. 
Every one of my deductions, I perceived all too 
clearly, led to a question to which I was unable 
to supply an answer. I began to regret that I 
had not read the message at Adams’s hut and 
cross-examined him on it before I left him. But 
I realized I should never have been able to de- 


THE MESSAGE 


37 


cipher the scrawl by the flickering light of the oil- 
lamp in the shack. I resolved to go down to the 
negro quarter and see Adams again in the morning. 

I suddenly began to feel restless and rather 
unhappy. I know the symptoms. In me they 
always presage a burst of activity after a spell of 
idleness. This infernal riddle had altogether up¬ 
set me. I had no desire to go to bed; the very 
idea of sleep was repugnant to me. 

I measured myself out a peg of whiskey and 
splashed the soda into it. My eyes, roaming 
round the room, fell on the upright piano in the 
corner. I crossed to the instrument and, opening 
the lid, put on the music rest the little square of 
oil-skin. Then, summoning back to my mind with 
an effort the hazy musical knowledge of my early 
school days, with considerable deliberation I 
picked out on the piano the notes indicated in the 
four bars of music appended to the end of the 
message. 

I got the melody at once, or rather one move¬ 
ment of a melody which was dimly familiar to 
me. It fitted itself to no words or voice in my 
mind; but as I hummed it over, a silly little jingle, 
I suddenly had a mental picture of a cheap Ger¬ 
man dance-hall, such as you find in the northern 
part of Berlin, with a blaring orchestra and jos¬ 
tling couples redolent of perspiration and beer. 
I knew the tune; but it was the words which were 


38 ISLAND GOLD 

wanted to complete the dead man’s message. And 
they came not. 

I was laboriously pounding the piano with one 
finger when I heard Bard’s heavy step on the ve¬ 
randah. The next moment he came into the room, 
a big figure of a man in a tussore silk suit with 
a Panama hat. Somehow the sight of him made 
me feel easier in my mind. That sublime sense 
of superiority, which we British suck in with our 
mother’s milk, is a heartening thing when you find 
it in your fellow Britisher abroad thousands of 
miles from home. And John Bard, though, with 
his small pointed beard and rather pallid face, 
he looked like a Spaniard, was through and 
through British. Trader, merchant, financier, 
and, on occasion, statesman, his massive body 
bore scars which told of thrilling years spent 
among the cannibals and head-hunters of the 
Pacific islands. 

But long years of exile had only served to make 
John Bard more resolutely British. An uncom¬ 
promising bachelor, abstemious in his habits and 
puritanical in his outlook, his mental attitude 
towards his fellow man in this tiny republic of 
the Spanish Main was exactly what it would have 
been had he been a London suburbanite suddenly 
translated from his native Brixton to these dis¬ 
tant shores. He was an eminently common, sen¬ 
sible person who was generally reputed to run 


THE MESSAGE 


39 


the miniature republic of Rodriguez in which he 
had elected to settle down after his adventurous 
life. 

His unshakeable phlegm lent him a reposeful 
air which I believe was the first thing that drew 
me to him when, a few months before for the 
first time for many years, I had met him again 
in a New York hotel. Six months’ leave, unex¬ 
pectedly offered, found me at a % loose end, and I 
gladly accepted his invitation to travel down by 
one of his ships and visit him in his Central 
American home. His cheery self-possession, as 
he stepped through the open doors of the ve¬ 
randah, seemed to put to flight the unpleasant 
shapes which my mind’s eye had seen rising from 
the little piece of oil-silk. 

Bard crossed the room without speaking and 
filled himself a glass of soda-water from a syphon 
on the side-table. He tossed his soft Panama hat 
on a chair and brushed back his closely cut crop 
of iron-grey hair from his temples. With his glass 
in his hand, he dropped into a seat at my side. 

“There’s a yacht in the harbour,” he said. 
“That’s what made me late. She’s called for some 
stuff they’ve got waiting for her at the Consulate. 
Fordwich — that’s the Consul, you know — is 
down with a go of fever, so I went round with 
his clerk to see about this consignment. Whew! 
But it’s warm walking!” 


40 


ISLAND GOLD 


“What’s the yacht?” I asked. 

“Name of Naomi. She’s come through the 
Canal” — “the Canal” in these parts is, of course, 
the Panama Canal — “and is going across to 
Hawaii, I believe!” 

He yawned and stretched his big frame. He 
drained his glass and stood up. 

“Heigho,” he said, “It’s after two. I’m for 
bed!” 

Now between John Bard and me existed that 
sort of uncommunicative friendship which is often 
found between two men who have knocked about 
the world a good deal. Though I could tell by 
Bard’s elaborate affectation of nonchalance that 
he noticed I was preoccupied, I knew he would 
never demand the cause of this. If I wanted his 
advice, I should have to ask for it. 

“Bard,” said I, “just a minute. Who’s El 
Cojo?” 

I pronounced it in the English fashion, but 
Bard gave the word its rasping Spanish aspirate 
as he repeated it. 

“El Cojo?” he queried. “That’s a nickname, 
isn’t it? What is he? A bull-fighter, or a cigar?” 

“I gather,” I remarked, “that he’s a gentleman 
of fortune!” 

Bard laughed. 

“The production of that type is an old industry 
in these parts, my boy,” he riposted. “And even / 


THE MESSAGE 


41 


don’t know ’em all. I never heard of your pal. 
Is he a citizen of this illustrious republic?” 

I shook my head. 

“I haven’t an idea,” I answered. “I only know 
that a man called Black Pablo is mixed up with 
him ...” 

John Bard whistled softly. 

“ ‘Dime con quien andas, decirte de quien 
eres,’ ” he quoted. “That is to say, tell me whom 
you go with and I’ll tell you who you are. If 
your pal is a friend of Black Pablo, then he’s ‘no 
friend o’ mine’!” 

“Why?” 

“Because,” said John Bard slowly, and I 
noticed that his mocking air had altogether dis¬ 
appeared, “because Black Pablo is the greatest 
scoundrel on this coast . . . and that’s going 
some! During the war, when, after a good deal 
of pressure, our most illustrious President ulti¬ 
mately kicked out Schwanz, the German Consul, 
Black Pablo became Germany’s unofficial agent. 
He was mixed up with running guns for the 
Mexicans to annoy the Yanks, and supplies for 
the Hun commerce raiders to worry the British, 
and every other kind of dirty work. As long as 
he was merely a smuggler, a cut-throat, and a 
hired assassin, as he was before the war . . . 
Bien! I had nothing to say to him. But when 
the fellow had the blasted impudence to come 


42 


ISLAND GOLD 


butting into our war on the wrong side, by 
George! one had to do something. The Americans 
were devilish decent about it, I must say, and, 
with their support, we ran the skunk out of here 
P.D.Q. That was around January, 1918, and I 
have never heard of our friend since. But I’ll 
give you a word of advice, young fellow, my lad. 
If you come across Black Pablo, give him a wide 
berth. And mind his left! He keeps his knife in 
that sleeve!” 

I pointed at the open cigar-box. 

“Light up, John Bard,” said I, “for I want to 
tell you a story and get your advice!” 

So, while in the garden trees and bushes stirred 
lazily to a little breeze before dawn, I told him, as 
briefly as might be, the story I had heard from 
Adams. My host never once interrupted me, but 
sat and smoked in silence till my tale was done. 
Even after I had finished, he remained silent for a 
spell. 

At length he said musingly, 

“Cock Island, eh? Yes, it surely would be a 
good spot for a quiet rendezvous.” 

“You know it, then?” I asked eagerly. 

“Aye,” he averred. “I know it by name. But 
I was never there. It lies off the beaten trade 
routes, you see. But I remember hearing once 
that it had been a port of call for some of the old 
buccaneers, like Kidd and Roberts, who plied their 


THE MESSAGE 


43 


trade in these parts. And so you think there’s 
German gold hidden there, eh?” 

“This” — I held up the fragment of oil-silk 
— “looks as if it might answer that question. If 
only one could read it,” I added. And I spread it 
out before him. We put our heads together, under 
the lamp, while I read over my rough translation! 
Then Bard, shrugging his shoulders, leaned back 
in his chair and blew out a cloud of smoke. 

“What are you going to do about it, Okewood?” 

“Well,” I said slowly, “if there were any sort of 
certainty about its not being absolutely a wild- 
goose chase ...” 

“You’d go after it, eh?” 

“It’d be a devilish amusing way of finishing up 
my leave.” 

John Bard smiled indulgently. 

“It might be more exciting than amusing,” he 
said, “if Black Pablo has anything to do with this 
affair.” 

“Do you think there is anything in it?” I asked. 

“In the latter stages of the war,” my host re¬ 
plied, “I heard vague rumours about some island 
off the coast where German commerce raiders used 
to rendezvous for supplies. But I never heard this 
island named. It seems to me that the first thing 
to be done is to see your friend, Adams, again. 
After all, he’s been to the island. He might be 
able to tell us more about it. Besides ...” 


44 


ISLAND GOLD 


He broke off and flicked the ash from his cigar. 
His manner had suddenly become rather grave. 

“Besides what?” I demanded. 

“If Black Pablo and his friends are after that 
plan, or whatever it is, Adams is in pretty consid¬ 
erable danger, Okewood.” 

“He knows it himself, I believe,” I replied. “I 
didn’t like leaving him to-night, Bard, and that’s a 
fact. He seemed to be frightened about some¬ 
thing. There was a man in the lane outside the 
hut who was singing and ...” 

“A man singing?” Bard queried sharply. 

“Yes, to a guitar,” I answered, surprised by his 
tone. “He sang very well, too!” 

John Bard rose to his feet suddenly. He 
stepped to the verandah and held up his hand for 
silence. 

“Were you followed when you came back from 
Adams’s?” he asked me. 

“No, not as far as I know.” 

Bard was listening intently. All was quiet in 
the gardens below save for the murmuring of the 
sea-breeze in the palms. 

“Get into your clothes and come along, Oke¬ 
wood,” he said, turning away from the window. 
“And leave that damned plan behind.” 

“Why, what ...” 

“Hurry, man, or we shall be too late.” 


THE MESSAGE 


45 


“But, damn it, Bard, explain!” I cried in exas¬ 
peration. 

“Black Pablo is renowned all along the coast 
for his exquisite singing to the guitar. Be quick, 
be quick, old man, and don’t forget your 
gun! ...” 


CHAPTER IV 


A FOOTSTEP IN THE LANE 

The moon had paled, and a greyness in the sky as 
we hurried down the hill betokened the approach 
of day. At length the city had sunk to rest; the 
port slumbered, and in the red-light quarter be¬ 
hind the docks the laughter and the guitars were 
stilled. How through that maze of mean streets 
and lanes I found the way back to Doha Luisa’s 
cabin, I don’t know; but I expect that a kind of 
instinct for marking a route once traversed, which, 
with me, is inborn, stood me in good stead. 

The negro quarter was wrapped in silence. 
The swift rustling of a rat, a distant cock-crow 
from the sleeping city, were the only sounds to 
break the stillness of the night. At length we 
reached the narrow lane in which the shanty stood. 
It was almost dark; for the moon had gone in be¬ 
hind a bank of clouds and the day was not yet 
come. 

The big wooden door stood wide. Across the 
little yard dimly we saw the dark outline of the 
shack. The mud surface of the court was wet and 


A FOOTSTEP IN THE LANE 


47 


sticky and my rubber-soled shoes slipped on it as 
we crossed the threshold of the enclosure. John 
Bard touched my arm. 

“Man alive,” he whispered, “look at your 
shoes!” 

I did as I was bid and recoiled in horror. 

The white buckskin was deeply smeared with 
crimson. 

We dashed across the yard. The shanty door 
stood open. Within, amid a scene of hideous con¬ 
fusion, the body of the beach-comber hung head 
downwards from the rough couch, the throat cut 
from ear to ear. And behind the door in another 
welter of blood lay the corpse of Doha Luisa. 

The place was a shambles. The hut had been 
turned upside-down and the few poor belongings 
of the outcast scattered all over the floor. The 
very maize cane on which his dead body lay had 
been tossed about. And blood was smeared every¬ 
where, as though the murderer or murderers had 
brought it in on their boots. 

John Bard’s face was anxious. 

“We’ll do well to get out of here,” he said, 
“before it gets light. They mustn’t find us here. 
Let’s go out by the back and return by the way 
you came ...” 

I gladly acquiesced in his suggestion. To tell 
the truth, I was feeling a little sick. The fetid 
odours of the negro quarter reeked to heaven in 


48 


ISLAND GOLD 


the freshening morning air, and mingled with 
them was a suspicion of some unutterably horrid 
taint arising from the two corpses which had lain 
there all the warm night. 

We had reached the threshold of the back door 
when suddenly a heavy footstep sounded from the 
front. In the absolute stillness all round, the 
sound rang out clearly. It was as though a heavy 
man were stumping slowly across the hard pound¬ 
ed earth of the front yard. He came with a step 
and a stump, a step and a stump, like a lame man 
walking with a stick or crutches. 

John Bard made as though to bolt. But I re¬ 
strained him. I felt I must see this mysterious 
visitant. And John Bard, loyal friend as he is, 
though he had nothing to gain by my rashness, 
stopped dead in his tracks and with me drew be¬ 
hind the cover of the back door. Through the 
chink between door and jamb we surveyed the 
entrance to the shack. 

A huge black shape stood on the threshold. 
It was too dark within the hut to note the new¬ 
comer’s features or his dress. One had only the 
sensation of a great form that bulked largely, 
immensely, in the doorway. 

I turned noiselessly to Bard. He divined the 
unspoken proposal on my lips, for he shook his 
head curtly and his grip on my sleeve tightened. 
At the same moment the great form in the door- 


A FOOTSTEP IN THE LANE 


49 


way moved and the next instant was swallowed 
up in the shadows of the courtyard. We heard 
the clip-clop of his limping step as he crossed 
the enclosure. Little by little it died away as he 
stumped up the lane. 

“Smear some earth on your shoes!” 

John Bard was speaking to me. Blindly I did 
as he bade me and rubbed dust over the damp, 
dark stains on the white buckskin. Then, gripping 
me by the arm, my friend ran me through the 
back yard and out by the door which now stood 
open. 

In the freshness of the plantation, away from 
the stenches of the village and the nameless taint 
of that house of slaughter, my senses came back 
to me, and I felt ashamed of the rashness which 
might have had disastrous consequences for both 
of us. But, when at length we stood once more in 
the bungalow and Bard poured me out a stiff dose 
of brandy, I noticed that, contrary to his invari¬ 
able rule, he had one himself as well. 

“And now,” he said, and in his voice was a note 
of decision, “the sooner you leave Rodriguez, 
Desmond, the better for you. I don’t want to 
appear inhospitable or I might add, the better 
for me, too. That poor devil, Adams, is dead and 
you can do nothing for him by staying. You are 
sufficiently acquainted, I take it, with the mentality 
of my distinguished fellow citizens to realize that 


50 


ISLAND GOLD 



very little fuss will be made over the untimely de¬ 
mise of Adams and his coloured lady. In the 
meantime you are in the greatest danger 
here ...” 

“I don’t see why I should worry,” I argued. 
“If they had known of my visit to Adams, they 
would have raided the hut and butchered the three 
of us to get hold of the document. But they 
didn’t; and they don’t even know me by 
sight ...” 

“They evidently didn’t know of your visit at the 
time” remarked John Bard gravely. “But ob¬ 
viously something happened after your departure 
to put them wise. Hence the attack on the house. 
You were either seen going to the house or Dona 
Luisa gave you away. It looks to me as though 
they had only just traced the document to Adams. 
Black Pablo was set to watch, but, after the happy- 
go-lucky fashion of Latin America, he whiled away 
the time by serenading some of the dusky belles 
in the vicinity and failed to observe your arrival.” 

I recalled the soft laughter I had heard, min¬ 
gling with the strains of the guitar in the lane, 
and nodded. 

“You think that this fellow Black Pablo was put 
on guard to see that Adams did not leave the 
house? ...” 

“Precisely,” agreed my friend, “while El Cojo 
was sent for ...” 


A FOOTSTEP IN THE LANE 


51 


“El Cojo, the head of the gang?” 

“Himself and no other . . . the lame man 
who came to the door of the shack after the crime 
had been committed. In Spanish, ‘El Cojo’ 
means ‘the lame man,’ ‘he who goes with a 
limp.’ ...” 

John Bard went on talking, but I have no 
recollection of what he said. For my thoughts had 
flown back to another ‘lame man’ who had domi¬ 
nated the most thrilling episode in the whole of 
my life, the giant and ape-like cripple, head of the 
Kaiser’s personal secret service in the days of Ger¬ 
many’s greatness, who had dogged my brother 
Francis and myself until he had met his end at our 
hands in the chateau on the German-Dutch fron¬ 
tier. “Old Clubfoot,” as men called him in his 
hey-day, had been in his grave these four years 
past; yet once again I found the path of adven¬ 
ture barred at its outset by a great lame man. I 
thought of that huge figure blocking up the narrow 
doorway of the reeking hut and, as so often in the 
past, I felt welling up within me admiration for 
the extraordinary ingenuity of old man Des¬ 
tiny . . . 

“ . . . This gang of El Cojo’s,” John Bard 
was saying impressively, leaning across the table 
at me, hands palms downwards before him, “is a 
tremendous organization with a network of spies 
as widespread and efficient as the Camorra and 


52 


ISLAND GOLD 


Mafia in Italy or the Carbonarios in Portugal 
and Brazil. I have long suspected that there was 
at the head of it a man much bigger and abler 
than that murdering ruffian, Black Pablo, and now 
we have the proof of it. I know a bit about men, 
Desmond, and that hulking dot-and-carry-one 
scoundrel we saw to-night gives me a damned un¬ 
pleasant feeling. You mark my words: whether 
you were actually spotted or not, they’ll trace 
that plan to you, and, if you stay here, they’ll 
get you! And I know /” 

He appeared to reflect for a moment whilst I 
considered him with attention, for I had never 
before seen old John so worked up. But there is 
nothing like the unknown for getting on a fellow’s 
nerves. 

Then he drove his fist into his palm as if a 
sudden idea had struck him. 

“The Naomi he said; “the very thing for 
you!” 

“The Naomi?" I repeated. 

“Yes. The yacht that came in last evening. 
She’s going down to Honolulu. We ought to be 
able to fix it for you so they’ll take you with 
them ...” 

“What is this yacht?” I asked. 

“She belongs to Sir Alexander Garth. By 
George! she’s a beauty, Okewood! White paint 
and a gold line, green and white deck awnings, 


A FOOTSTEP IN THE LANE 


53 


everything slap up. He’s a millionaire, they 
say!” 

“I don’t know the name!” 

“We looked him up in the ‘Who’s Who’ at the 
club to-night. He’s a baronet and a big man in 
cotton. J.P. and D.L. of the county. What brings 
him here, I don’t know, except that cruising to 
the Southern Seas seems to be a fashionable 
rest-cure for millionaires whose nerves have been 
jaded by piling up money during the war.” 

“But, see here, Bard,” I expostulated, “I can’t 
go butting into a private pleasure cruise like this, 
I really can’t. It isn’t done, you know! And you 
can’t expect these prosaic English folk to swallow 
a long yarn about my life being in danger!” 

“Okewood,” said Bard — and now his voice 
was very stem — “you can take it from me that, if 
you don’t clear out at once, you’ll get your throat 
cut and probably mine into the bargain. There 
won’t be a steamer for Colon for at least a fort¬ 
night. This yacht is a heaven-sent opportunity for 
making your lucky. If you wait for the steamer, 
it’s a ten to one chance you’ll go up the gangway 
in your coffin neatly packed in ice! Do you get 
that? For the Lord’s sake, burn that damned 
rigmarole and beat it!” 

We Celts have a broad strain of contrariness in 
our nature which probably accounts for my strong 
inclination to disregard Bard’s advice. But his 




ISLAND GOLD 


54 

manner was so impressive for one of his un¬ 
emotional disposition that I could not but feel 
convinced. 

“Perhaps you’re right, old man,” I said. “I 
won’t bum the ‘rigmarole’ as you call it, but 
otherwise I will follow your suggestion. But it 
will be on one condition and one condition only. 
That is, that we part here and now, and that, 
should by any chance, your plan for forcing my 
company upon the excellent cotton-spinner and 
his party fail, you will not associate with me or 
in any way acknowledge me as long as I am in 
this city ...” 

I held out my hand. But Bard laughed and 
put his two hands on my shoulders. 

“No, no,” he protested, “it’s not so bad as all 
that. I’m coming down to the harbour to fix it 
up with Garth for you. He will probably call at 
the Consulate this morning, anyway, to fetch the 
stores we are holding for him.” 

“John,” said I, “I’ve dragged you far enough 
into this mess. It’s early enough yet for me to get 
down to the harbour and on to that yacht without 
attracting much attention. So let’s part here, and 
ever so many thanks again for all your kind¬ 
ness ...” 

“Desmond” — John Bard’s voice trembled 
a little — “I wouldn’t hear of it . . . ” 

“My dear old man,” I said, “I’m in a proper 


A FOOTSTEP IN THE LANE 


55 


mess and I’ve no intention of pulling you into it 
after me. And I’d like to say one thing more. 
You might have rubbed it in that the whole of 
this trouble was brought on us by my initial folly 
in accompanying an unknown messenger to the 
purlieus of the city in the middle of the night. 
You have never alluded to it; but I’d like you to 
know that your forbearance did not escape 
me ...” 

I stretched out my hand again. This time John 
Bard took it. 

“I’ll send your things down to the Consulate,” 
he said; “they can go on board with Garth’s 
stores.” 

And so, in perfect understanding, we settled it. 
At the verandah door I turned and said: 

“And do you think now that there’s anything 
in Adams’s story, Bard?” 

“Yes,” my host replied, “I do!” 

Then he added, with his little indulgent smile: 

“Are you going after it?” 

I shrugged my shoulders. 

“I might!” said I. 

But already fermenting in my brain was the 
germ of a great idea. The next moment the iron 
gate of the gardens clanged behind me and I was 
off at a good pace down the hill. 


CHAPTER V 


THE GIRL IN THE SMOKE-ROOM 

The sun was up; but the air was still delightfully 
fresh and the verdure yet glistened with the heavy 
night dews. Beyond the fringe of wavy palms 
which marked the shore the sea glittered and 
sparkled, its deep blue melting to a paler shade 
where on the horizon the sea mingled with sky. 
Past the tangle of white and yellow houses where 
the city stood, a creamy dead-white edging of 
foam, like ermine laid on an azure mantle, 
marked the intricate windings of the coast until 
once more ocean, shore, and sky imperceptibly 
blended in the glorious blue. 

It was a morning on which one was glad to be 
alive. The champagne-like quality of the air sent 
a zest for action thrilling through my veins. The 
world seemed very fair, and, as I crossed the 
market-place, I paused an instant to gaze with 
utter satisfaction on that brilliant mass of colour, 
the scarlet umbrellas of the stalls, the country¬ 
women with their heads enveloped in kerchiefs of 
flaming hues, the bold reds and greens and yellows 
of the masses of fruit and vegetables set forth in 
magnificent profusion for sale. 


THE GIRL IN THE SMOKE-ROOM 57 


I felt that I was standing on the threshold of a 
great adventure. The strain of romance which 
Celtic blood bestows leaped to answer its appeal. 
In my head ran the mysterious jingle in which, as 
I was now convinced, a treasure lay concealed. 
So engrossed was I with my thoughts that, on 
mounting the broad flight of steps which led to the 
long, cool verandah of the British Consulate, I 
collided violently with a man who was coming 
out. 

He was a short, stocky fellow, enormously 
strongly built, so massive in bulk, indeed, that 
one might almost say of him that he was as broad 
as he was long. His clean-shaven face, big and 
smooth and freckled, was tanned a deep brick-red, 
and, especially about the good-natured, firm 
mouth, was lined with innumerable creases. The 
hair visible beneath his rather battered yachting- 
cap was close-cropped and of a flaming red tint 
and his tufted eyebrows were of the same shade. 
A pair of brave and honest eyes shone very bluely 
out of his sunburnt face. He was wearing a clean 
but somewhat creased suit of white drill and in 
his hand he carried a sheaf of papers. 

The mere sight of him carried me straight away 
back to Southsea or Plymouth, or one of those 
queer steep little towns of the Isle of Wight where 
so many masters of our merchant marine have 
their homes. From the crown of his head to the 


58 


ISLAND GOLD 


sole of his foot he was British, of a type that, I 
imagine, has scarcely changed through the ages. 

“Sorry!” he said, as though realizing that in the 
impact it could only be my less substantial frame 
which could suffer, and, taking a step back, 
scrutinized me. 

“My fault!” said I, rubbing my head, for I 
felt as if I had butted it against a stone wall. 

“If you’re going to see the Consul,” said the big 
man — and in his speech was a pleasant touch of 
the Hampshire burr — “you’ll not find him. And 
the Vice-Consul’s not in, either! He don’t come 
to the office before nine o’clock: leastwise that’s 
what I figured out the Dago within was tryin’ to 
tell me! They don’t overwork in the Government 
offices!” 

With the perfect complacency of the Britisher, 
he addressed me in English, probably assuming 
that if I were a foreigner, I should understand him. 

He stood on the steps and mopped his brow. 

“I wonder whether you could tell me,” I said, 
“where the steam yacht Naomi is lying?” 

The big man smiled and crinkled his face into a 
thousand fresh creases. 

“Aye,” he replied. “That I can! She’s lying 
about a hundred yards off the Customs House 
jetty — a white craft flying the Thames Yacht 
Club burgee. You can’t mistake her! Do you 
know anybody aboard?” 


THE GIRL IN THE SMOKE-ROOM 59 


“Not exactly,” said I. “But I wanted to call on 
Sir Alexander Garth, the owner.” 

“Then you come right along with me,” placidly 
observed the big man. “I’m the captain of the 
Naomi — I sail her for Sir Alexander. I’ve got 
our mail here and I’m going straight back on 
board. I left the launch at the steps! And, by 
the way, my name is Lawless — Harvey Law¬ 
less ...” 

“I should be delighted to come with you,” I 
replied. “My name is Okewood!” 

We turned our backs on the Consulate and, 
crossing the Cathedral square, followed a shabby, 
grass-grown street which rejoiced in the grandiose 
name of the Avenida de la Liberacion. As we 
strolled along in the shade, Captain Lawless enter¬ 
tained me with some of his ideas on the shortcom¬ 
ings of the Central American republics and, in 
particular, of the State whose hospitality we were 
then enjoying. But with becoming reticence he 
did not question me as to the object of my desire 
to call upon his employer, nor, on the other hand, 
did he volunteer any information about that gen¬ 
tleman or his friends. 

Presently we emerged into a great white square 
on the sea, a place of blinding glare and whirling 
dust. Here at the foot of some white stone steps 
a trim motor launch was heaving to and fro in the 
bright green swell under the silent gaze of a knot 



60 


ISLAND GOLD 


of loafers. Two men were in the launch, one 
wearing a white jersey with “S.Y. Naomi ’ em¬ 
broidered in blue and a round sailor’s cap with 
the yacht’s name on the ribbon. The other was 
in a blue suit and wore a yachting cap. 

“You’ll want to bring the launch back in a 
couple of hours’ time, Parsons,” said the Captain, 
addressing the man in the yachting cap. “The 
Vice-Consul won’t be there till then. You’ll have 
to get a move on him about those fittings. Mr. 
Mackay will not be very pleased, I’m thinking! 
He expected me to bring ’em back with me.” 

I stood a little to one side during the brief 
dialogue which ensued and feasted my eyes on 
the picturesque scene. Viewed from the water 
the city presented a beautiful spectacle. The 
houses rose in tiers amid masses of greenery 
which rested the eye from the pitiless glare of 
the sea. In the distance I noted the pleasant green 
hill where the long low line of John Bard’s bunga¬ 
low was just discernible among the trees. The 
square in which we stood was in itself a wonder¬ 
ful picture with its great white warehouses, public 
buildings and the like built over deep high arcades 
where with shrill cries newspaper boys and boot¬ 
blacks plied their trade and lemonade sellers and 
beggars drowsed in the cool shadows. 

The little knot of spectators fringing the quay¬ 
side were as picturesque a bunch of picaroons 


THE GIRL IN THE SMOKE-ROOM 61 


as I have ever set eyes on. Their complexions 
ran through the whole series of shades from light 
coffee to Brunswick black. Their attire was as 
varied as their colour; but for the most part it 
consisted in a ragged Panama hat, a dirty vest, 
and a pair of thin striped cotton trousers. 

I noticed one unusually striking figure, a 
stunted negro with a pock-marked face who wore 
a gaudy yellow handkerchief bound about his 
head and heavy gold rings in his ears. I observed 
this sportsman looking hard at me and was a little 
nonplussed to see him apparently draw the 
attention of the man at his side to me. The 
negro’s companion was a swarthy, lissom young 
fellow with handsome features and a pair of bold 
black eyes. The negro nudged him and broke 
into a torrent of words. I was not near enough 
to make out what was said (and, if I had been, I 
doubt if I should have understood their rapidly 
spoken lingo). But I felt tolerably certain that 
the black was speaking about me; for twice 
he nodded his head in my direction. The upshot 
of it was that the swarthy young man turned and 

— a remarkable thing in this indolent population 

— sprinted hard away in the direction of the 
city. 

I must say I felt disquieted. Since I had left 
John Bard’s house that morning, I had kept a 
careful watch to see if I were followed. But no 


62 


ISLAND GOLD 


one had appeared to take any notice of me what¬ 
soever and I felt reasonably sure that I was not 
shadowed. But now it distinctly looked as though 
I had been recognized. And in that moment, I be¬ 
lieve, there hardened into determination in my 
mind the great resolve which had come into my 
head as I was taking leave of John Bard. 

But the Captain was summoning me to step into 
the launch. I dropped in, he followed, and in a 
moment we were “touf-toufing” through the roll¬ 
ing green swell of the harbour towards the long 
and graceful shape of the Naomi as she tugged 
at her moorings over against the battered white 
bulk of the Customs House. It was with feel¬ 
ings of profound satisfaction that I saw the square 
with its fringe of loafers, the white houses, and 
the tufted palms recede as the natty little boat 
cleaved a foaming path through the green water. • 
I had got clear away. It was up to me to 
secure for myself an invitation to join the party 
on Sir Alexander Garth’s yacht. 

She was a beautiful craft, with a good turn for 
speed, to judge by her design. As we drew 
nearer, I could see, by the many evidences of 
comfort displayed, that her owner must be a man 
of wealth. The snowy decks, the burnished brass 
and copper fittings, the clean, well-turned-out 
sailors who were busy on the deck beneath the 
striped sun-awnings, the neat gangway let down 


THE GIRL IN THE SMOKE-ROOM 63 


over the side with its clean white hand-rope —- the 
whole impression given was one of luxury re¬ 
gardless of cost. As we turned to run alongside, 
I found myself wondering what manner of man 
this Sir Alexander Garth was. Was he a wealthy 
industrialist of pre-war England, or merely one of 
the new rich? If the latter, he would be less easy 
to handle than the former, I reflected: — besides, 
I reckoned, a war profiteer would not wear well 
on a long cruise to the South Seas! The next 
moment I stood on the deck of the Naomi in the 
modulated light which penetrated through the 
green-and-white awning. 

The Captain bade the man whom he had ad¬ 
dressed as Parsons, whom I found to be the head 
steward, take me to the smoke-room while he 
asked “Sir Alexander” if he could receive me. 
Treading almost noiselessly on his rubber soles, 
the steward led me along the deck to the back 
of the bridge, where a door hooked back revealed 
a glimpse of a long low-ceilinged saloon set about 
with comfortable settees and club chairs in soft 
green morocco leather, the portholes screened 
against the blinding light from without. 

Even beneath the awning the light outside was 
so much stronger than the comparative obscurity 
within the smoke-room that at first I could 
not distinguish much. Parsons left me at the 
door, and I was about to sit down when I dis- 


64 


ISLAND GOLD 


covered to my surprise that I was not alone. At 
a desk set in one of the two recesses which 
flanked the doorway a girl was sitting. She was 
dressed in a plain white silk tennis shirt and white 
pique skirt, and her Panama hat lay on a chair at 
her side. She was writing letters. In the stillness 
of the room I could hear her pen scratching across 
the paper. So engrossed was she in her writing 
that she did not turn round. 

I felt a little embarrassed. I felt it would be 
too farcical to cough mildly, in the manner of a 
stage comedian, in order to announce my pres¬ 
ence; while, on the other hand, to make some 
violent noise like dropping on the floor one of 
the books which were lying around might, I con¬ 
ceived, unduly frighten the young lady. So I 
sat where I was, enjoying the pleasant half-light 
of the room after the heat and glitter outside, 
and amused myself by guessing at the appearance 
of the stranger from her back. 

She had beautiful hair of a glossy golden 
brown, “bobbed” after the modern fashion, but 
so exquisitely brushed and tended that I decided 
she must have a good maid. Her figure was 
admirable, her neck very white and slender and 
matchless in the grace of its poise as she inclined 
her head to the paper. Her clothes, simple as 
they were, were faultless both in their cut and 
the way she wore them. I suppose there are 


THE GIRL IN THE SMOKE-ROOM 65 


fashions in a tennis blouse and skirt the same 
as there are in other kinds of women’s clothes. 
At any rate, there was a flawless chic about this 
girl’s appearance which told me that she was 
Paris-clad. 

Presently the scratching of the pen stopped. A 
white hand stole up and patted the golden brown 
hair. Then some intuitive sense told me that the girl 
knew there was some one in the room. It was as 
though our two minds communed in that still, cool 
place. At the same moment she swung round on 
her chair and, seeing me, rose abruptly to her 
feet. 

As she confronted me, I realized that I must 
have divined her beauty; for it came as no sur¬ 
prise to me to find her extremely good-looking. 
I have met many women in my time and, as is 
not uncommon in my profession, many were of 
the “charmer” order. 

But the girl who stood facing me, a little per¬ 
turbed, somewhat nonplussed by the unexpected 
apparition, had an indefinite quality of beauty 
which would have made her remarkable in any 
society. A beautifully shaped head, an oval face, 
delicately pencilled eyebrows throwing into relief 
the large grey eyes, a fine white skin, and un¬ 
usually good teeth — all these attributes of beauty 
she possessed. But with them went a curiously 
strong attraction, some quality of magnetism, 


66 


ISLAND GOLD 


which, to speak quite personally, made me want 
to see her radiantly happy, to conjure up a smile 
which I felt must be unusually sweet. 

“Oh,” she exclaimed, and blushed very prettily, 
“I didn’t hear you come in. How do you do? I 
am Marjorie Garth. Does Daddy know you’re 
here?” 

With the empressement of the exiled Briton, 
to whom the vision of a fresh young English girl 
is as the first violets of spring or the fragrance 
of the forest after summer rain, I took the slim 
cool hand she offered me. 

“The steward,” I said, “has gone to tell him!” 

“I’m afraid,” she went on, scrutinizing me 
dispassionately after the manner of the modern 
young girl, “that you’re in for a very slow time. 
There’s nobody but just Daddy and me. Of 
course, that was the idea of this cruise. Daddy 
overworked terribly in the war and the doctors 
told him he’d never get his nerves right unless 
he dropped business absolutely for a whole year.” 

I wondered how she had divined the nature 
of my mission to her father. Perhaps the Captain 
had jumped to conclusions and had imparted them 
to her. But her next remark puzzled me horribly. 

“Of course, I’m perfectly fit,” she observed 
and smiled with a glint of white teeth. “But 
Daddy is very difficult to handle. He has cables 
sent to him at every port, and when we’re in har- 


THE GIRL IN THE SMOKE-ROOM 67 


hour his cabin looks like his office at the Man¬ 
chester Cotton Exchange. You’ll have to be very 
severe with him about it . . 

“I don’t know really,” I replied, very puzzled, 
“whether I should feel justified ...” 

“Oh,” laughed the girl, “that’s no way to 
handle Daddy. He’s from the north, remember! 
He made his money by knowing when to say ‘No’; 
— at least, that’s what he says. And you’ll have 
to say ‘No’ to him. And to me as well. I’m like 
Daddy. I adore having my own way. And I 
usually get it . . 

“That I’m fully prepared to believe!” I 
answered, and we both laughed. It was as though 
we were old friends. Then, growing serious on a 
sudden, the girl very deliberately started rolling 
up the left sleeve of her blouse. I gazed at her 
in bewilderment. What was coming now? I 
asked myself. With the utmost composure she 
unbared to the shoulder a firm, round, and very 
white arm. 

“Don’t give me away to Daddy,” she observed 
confidentially. “But my idiotic French maid 
burnt my arm the day before yesterday with the 
electric tongs, and it’s rather sore. I wish you 
would just have a look at it. I haven’t said a word 
to Daddy, for, if he knew, he would insist on dis¬ 
missing Yvonne. Would you mind . . . ?” 

She extended her white arm to me whilst I, like 


68 


ISLAND GOLD 


an idiot, blushed furiously in my embarrassment 
and vainly cudgelled my brains to discover who 
this charming girl thought I was. And why the 
devil should I look at the burn on her arm? 

A calm voice at the doorway delivered me from 
my dilemma. 

“Sir Alexander will see you, sir!” 

The steward, Parsons, was there. Marjorie 
Garth pulled her sleeve down. 

“Don’t keep Daddy waiting!” she warned, and 
added: “You shall dress my arm afterwards!” 

I said “Oh, rather /” or something equally idiotic 
and followed the steward out. As I passed the 
girl, she leant forward and whispered: 

“Mind you stand up to him!” 

As we crossed the blinding sunshine of the deck 
and went down a companionway, Parsons confided 
to me that the owner was at breakfast. My heart 
sank rather. It is poor tactics to ask a man for 
favours before noon. 

The saloon, which was panelled in some light- 
coloured wood, maple or birch, resembled, with its 
little domed sky-light, the restaurant of a liner. 
It was a small, snug little place with rose-coloured 
silk curtains and carpet and a profusion of silver 
and flowers. At the far end was a door which, 
I imagined, led to the cabins. 

At the sound of my entrance, Sir Alexander 
Garth looked up from his egg. As he stood up to 


THE GIRL IN THE SMOKE-ROOM 69 


greet me, I saw he was a tall, heavily built man 
in the fifties with a heavy iron-grey moustache. 
He had about him an air I have noticed in other 
prosperous business people — a sort of “moneyed 
manner” which reveals itself in a great deal of 
self-confidence with just a touch of parade. The 
hard grey eyes and the firm chin denoted the man 
of action; but the physiognomist in me (which 
my work has considerably developed) took mental 
stock of the arched nostril and the downward dip 
to the corners of the mouth which are the un- 
mistakeable signals of a violent temper. 

These and other little details I noticed about 
him as we shook hands and he asked me if I had 
breakfasted. And because I was really pretty 
peckish, and because I believe one can always do 
business best over a meal, I accepted his invitation 
and started in on a luscious grapefruit. When 
he had poured out my coffee, pushed the toast-rack 
at me, and generally put me at my ease, Sir 
Alexander Garth, who had been scrutinizing me 
rather closely, remarked: 

“I should never have taken you for a doctor!” 

“I’m not a doctor, sir!” I answered. 

“I see — not taken your degree, eh? Well, 
well, I told our New York office in my cable to do 
the best they could: indeed, I wasn’t at all sure 
that our manager could manage it in the time. 
But Lowry’s a spry chap — he don’t come from 




70 


ISLAND GOLD 


Bolton for nothing — and he knows that when 
th’ oud man gives an order he expects it to be 
carried out. Did you meet Lowry, Doctor?” 

Now I understood Miss Garth’s inexplicable 
and embarrassing desire to show me her burnt 
arm. 

“I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake, Sir 
Alexander,” I said. “I’m not a doctor . . .” 

“Eh?” ejaculated the baronet, sitting back in 
his chair and looking at me. “Then who the devil 
are you: 

“My name is Okewood, Major Desmond Oke- 
wood,” I replied as boldly as might be, though 
my host’s countenance was hoisting all manner of 
storm signals in the shape of a reddening of the 
cheeks and the twitching of the nostrils, “and I 
have rather a strange request to make . . .” 

But I got no farther, for Garth exploded. 

“Damn it!” he exclaimed, pounding the table, 
with his big sunburnt hand, “I knew it. You’re 
from Allan’s. My Manchester office turned their 
proposition down without reference to me and, 
as soon as I heard about it, I wrote and confirmed 
the decision. And they’ve done nothing but 
badger me about it ever since. At every port 
there’s been a cable. And now you have the brass 
to come interfering with my holiday, asking 
yourself to breakfast under false pretenses. . . . 
Parsons!” 


THE GIRL IN THE SMOKE-ROOM 71 


He yelled for the steward, at the same time 
putting forth his hand to pound a bell that stood 
on the table at his side. 

“Stop!” I said. 

“Will you stop me from ringing for my own 
servants?” he demanded truculently. 

“I’ll stop you from making yourself look a 
fool before your own steward!” I retorted, “if 
you’ll quit shouting and listen to me for a minute. 
I have nothing to do with Allan’s or any other 
business concern ...” 

At the first glimpse of this resolute-looking 
cotton-spinner I knew that, to achieve my end, 
I should have to take him more fully into my 
confidence than either my inclination allowed or 
my instructions warranted. I took my letter-case 
from my pocket and, extracting a folded blue 
paper, laid it before Sir Alexander on the white 
damask tablecloth. These were my credentials, 
which we are supposed to show only in moments of 
direst necessity. 

“Will you read that?” I said. 

The baronet looked questioningly at me, then 
slowly put on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles 
which he took from a case in his pocket. He 
carefully perused my blue paper and then handed 
it back to me. 

“Eh,” he remarked without a trace of apology 
in his manner, “and we all thought you were the 


72 


ISLAND GOLD 


doctor I ordered our New York office to send to 
join the yacht at Rodriguez. Well, young man, 
and what can I do for you?” 

With the utmost candour I told him. There¬ 
after, for ten minutes or more, our heads were 
close together. Then he rang the bell. 

“My compliments to Captain Lawless,” he said 
to the steward, “and I should be obliged if he 
could spare me a few minutes! We will come to 
him in the chart-house!” 

He gave the steward the start of us by lingering 
to offer me a cigar and to light one for himself. 
Then we made our way up on deck and presently 
entered the chart-house, a room abaft the bridge 
and above the smoke-room. Here the Captain, 
looking very red and shaggy without his cap, 
awaited us. 

“Ah, Captain,” said our host, “let me make 
you acquainted with Major Okewood, who is 
coming a cruise with us. I want you to show me 
on the chart Cock Island in the Eastern Pacific. 
And let’s hear, too, what the ‘Sailing Directions’ 
have to say about it!” 

Thus I learnt that my pleading had prevailed 
with him and that, behind a hard and business¬ 
like exterior, there flickered a little spark of 
romance that had burst into flame at the magic 
tale of treasure trove I had poured into his ears. 
As the skipper spread out upon the mahogany top 


THE GIRL IN THE SMOKE-ROOM 73 


of the chart-locker the section in which, amid 
weird whorls and lines signifying tides and 
depths, Cock Island figured, I felt once more the 
strong tug at my heart from that secluded islet 
whence at the foot of volcanic peaks an enigmatic 
grave seemed to beckon . . . 


CHAPTER VI 


I RECEIVE AN INVITATION 

Garth appeared to be a seaman of no mean order. 
With the charts spread out before them he and 
the skipper promptly became immersed in a maze 
of technicalities. My ignorance of matters nau¬ 
tical is abysmal; and I listened in some bewilder¬ 
ment to talk of winds and tides and channels, of 
soundings and of reefs. I can reconstruct the scene 
now — the prelude to so many strange adven¬ 
tures ! — as the three of us poured over the chart, 
the long, low chart-house with its clean smell of 
paint, the holland sun-blinds rattling smartly in 
the breeze which blew in through the open port¬ 
holes, Garth in his loose tussore suit, with his 
eager face and keen eyes, a fragrant cigar thrust 
into his mouth, Lawless, rather awed by the other 
and consequently a trifle formal, stubbing the 
chart with a huge and podgy thumb. 

When they pulled down the big orange-coloured 
volume of “Sailing Directions” for the Eastern 
Pacific and opened the page at Cock Island, I 
could better follow them. 

“The island is mountainous,” Garth read out 
in his pleasant, deep voice, “and entirely volcanic, 


I RECEIVE AN INVITATION 


75 


rising to several peaks, of which the highest 
reaches 2856 feet. These peaks are probably 
volcanoes, but the interior is unexplored and 
almost impenetrable owing to its steep, rugged, 
and often precipitous nature, the many rushing 
streams and the dense vegetation. There are 
small areas of comparatively level ground 
surrounding Sturt and Horseshoe Bays . . . ” 

He turned a page and skipped a mass of detail. 

“There are only two harbours,” he read, “Sturt 
and Horseshoe Bays. Horseshoe Bay is larger 
than Sturt Bay, but is less sheltered, as it opens 
to the west and so has a heavy swell during the 
early months of the year. Moreover, the slopes 
surrounding the bay are much more abrupt and 
the area of level land in its neighbourhood is 
much less considerable.” 

Adams, I recollected, had spoken of the man 
Dutchy and himself coming upon the grave in a 
clearing in the undergrowth close to the shore. 
He had mentioned, too, that their ship’s boat had 
had to find a way in through the bar. It looked 
to me, therefore, as though they had landed in 
Horseshoe Bay where the upward slopes began 
closer to the shore than in Sturt Bay. 

We read on. The island, it seemed, had never 
had any permanent population. It was “the resort 
of buccaneers in the Seventeenth Century and 
later was a watering-place for whalers.” It had 


76 


ISLAND GOLD 


“little animal life”; but there were wild pigs, 
descendants of those left by Captain Martin, of 
the frigate Rover , in 1774, and rats, introduced 
by calling ships. Mention had been made, we 
were told, by various explorers of huge carved 
images reputed to exist in the interior of the 
island, similar to those for which Easter Island 
is famous; but there was no certain knowledge of 
their existence. 

There were a lot of particulars about attempts 
to colonize the island, of stray parties of mariners 
who had landed, with the intention of settling 
there; but in a year or two had gone away in a 
passing ship or died off. And there was a 
string of names, British and foreign, of naval 
men and of explorers who, landing to fill up with 
water or to kill some fresh meat, had jotted down 
a few observations about the island and then sailed 
away again across the boundless Pacific. 

“And now, Okewood,” said Garth pleasantly, 
“you and I and all of us, you know, are merely 
passengers on the high seas of Captain Lawless 
here, and with your permission I propose that we 
should tell him who you are and what you have 
just confided to me. You have no objection, I take 
it?” 

“None whatever,” said I. 

“Then tell him yourself!” urged Garth, 
dropping on to the leather settee. So, sitting 


I RECEIVE AN INVITATION 


77 


between the two on the softly padded seat, I un¬ 
folded my plan while the yacht gently swayed at 
her moorings and the awnings without cracked 
like a whip in the breeze. 

When I had finished, Garth said: 

“You’ll agree, I’m sure, that we can spare a 
week!” 

“I’m entirely in your hands, Sir Alexander!” 
returned the Captain. “But there is one condition 
I should like to make and that is that this matter 
remains strictly between us three. I have a very 
decent lot of men as crew, Sir Alexander, hard¬ 
working, reliable chaps, and every one person¬ 
ally known to me for years. I’d go so far as to 
say you’ve got the pick of the Solent in the Naomi . 
But this isn’t a man-o’-war, gentlemen, nor yet 
even a merchant vessel. In a pleasure yacht like 
this there isn’t, rightly speaking, the discipline 
that you’d find in either, and, to be plain-spoken, 
I don’t want the Major here to go upsetting the 
men with his treasure tales. Lay off at Cock 
Island, go ashore by all means, and have a Took 
see,’ but don’t, for God’s sake, blab about it or 
you’ll rot the finest crew that ever shipped! Let’s 
keep this thing to ourselves; indeed, I’ll go further 
than that. Leave me out of it! Then the men, 
should they hear anything, can’t say that I’m in 
it while they are not! And to tell you the truth, 
gentlemen, I’ve had a strict upbringing, my people 


78 


ISLAND GOLD 


being chapel-goers, and I was taught to believe 
that no blessing rests on money that we have not 
earned with the sweat of our brow and the work 
of our strong right hand. You two gentlemen take 
your week ashore and I’ll look after the ship!” 

Garth turned to me. 

“I don’t want to leave Captain Lawless out,” 
he said, “but I can’t help feeling he’s right about 
the crew!” 

“And about everybody else on board, Sir 
Alexander!” Lawless broke in. 

“You mean the ladies?” 

“I mean everybody else on board, just as I 
said, sir!” reiterated the skipper very firmly and 
with meaning. “What’s everybody’s secret is 
nobody’s secret! Mum’s the word or you’ll have 
trouble! Mum’s the word, I say!” 

“Well!” said Garth, “so be it! Mum’s the 
word!” 

Then came an unlooked-for interruption. 

“Why ‘mum’? What’s the secret?” 

A clear young voice rang out from the door. 
The three of us scrambled hastily to our feet. 
On the threshold stood the girl of the smoke-room. 

“Morning, Marjie!” said Garth. 

He wore something of a hangdog look. So 
did I, I think, as I did my best to secrete myself 
behind them. I was wondering what the girl 
would think of me when she discovered my in- 


I RECEIVE AN INVITATION . 79 


voluntary deception. Fortunately Lawless’s huge 
frame completely obliterated me. 

“What are you two talking secrets about?” 
she demanded bluntly. “And why ‘mum’s the 
word’?” 

Garth looked at Lawless and Lawless looked at 
Garth; but neither answered her question. Then 
she looked at the skipper. His air reminded me 
of a pickpocket caught red-handed. 

“Good morning. Miss Garth!” he mumbled and 
made a stiff little bow. That bow was my un¬ 
doing; for the Captain disclosed me behind him. 

“Oh!” cried the girl with a little gurgle of 
amusement, “it’s the doctor. Well, did you take 
my advice?” 

“Yes,” I answered. Then, taking the plunge, 
I faltered: 

“But I’m not the doctor ...” 

On that the girl coloured up a little. I knew 
what she was thinking of and our eyes met. I felt 
relieved to see the glint of humour creep into 
them. 

Then Garth, who had turned to speak to the 
Captain, broke in. 

“I should have introduced you. Major, this 
is my daughter — Marjie, Major Okewood, who 
is coming as far as Honolulu with us. Would you 
see Carstairs about getting a cabin ready for 
him?” 


80 


ISLAND GOLD 


With a graceful little nod to her father and a 
smile for me, which had its hidden meaning for 
us both, Marjorie Garth went out again on to the 
sunlit deck. We three men plunged into our 
deliberations again, and when at length the gong 
sounded for luncheon, we had evolved a rough 
plan of campaign. 

I told Garth quite frankly that the message 
found on the grave at Cock Island was so far 
unintelligible to me and that I had no certainty of 
ever being able to decipher it. What I proposed 
to do was to examine the grave and the island 
generally to see whether I should find anything 
on the spot to throw any light on the message. 
We arranged, therefore, that on reaching Cock 
Island Garth and I should take a camping outfit 
and go ashore for a period not to exceed a week; 
that, if at the end of that time, my investigations 
had led to no result, I should abandon the enter¬ 
prise and return with him to the yacht. 

It was settled that we should sail that night, as 
soon as ever the spare parts required by Mr. 
Mackay, the engineer, were aboard; for I in¬ 
formed Garth of Bard’s advice to me to make my¬ 
self scarce without delay. The Captain reckoned 
that, taking things easy, we should make Cock 
Island on the fifth day out. We finally decided to 
put ashore at Horseshoe Bay, as both Lawless 


I RECEIVE AN INVITATION 


81 


and Garth agreed with me that this landing tallied 
best with the beach-comber’s description. 

As we crossed the deck to go down to the saloon 
the spare parts were being hoisted into the yacht 
from a barge. A hard-faced little man with a 
rasping Scottish accent, whom I took to be Mr. 
Mackay, the engineer, was in charge of the opera¬ 
tion, which was accompanied by some fine, full- 
flavoured swearing in broad Clydebank and a 
torrent of epileptic Latin-American blasphemy 
from various parties unseen in the lighter. 
Various small boats, piled up to their thwarts with 
poultry, fruit, vegetables, and bread, were 
bobbing about in a wide semicircle about the yacht 
and the air rang with the shrill cries of the vendors. 

As we passed the engineer, the Captain said: 

64 You’ll let none of this scum aboard, Mr. 
Mackay!” 

“But the steward was wishful ...” 

“I don’t give a hoot for the steward. I’ll have 
none of these Dagos aboard my ship. Have you 
got that clear?” 

“Verra guid, sir!” replied the Scotsman. 

I appreciated the skipper’s motive and looked at 
him gratefully. I was beginning to have an ad¬ 
miration for Captain Lawless. Besides being a 
man of character, he was plainly a person of 
quick perception. 

It was now very hot. The pitch was soft in 
the seams of the deck and the broken white line of 


82 


ISLAND GOLD 


the port buildings on shore swam in a tremor of 
heat. It was a relief to escape from the dazzling 
sunlight into the shaded seclusion of the saloon 
where two purring electric fans kept the atmos¬ 
phere cool and ice tinkled melodiously in crystal 
jugs of cider-cup. 

The girl Marjorie was already seated at the 
table. With her demurely cropped brown hair 
gleaming golden where the sunshine touched it, 
her serene beauty, and her white dress, she re¬ 
minded me of some Florentine Madonna, the 
shining white porthole like a halo framing her 
face against a background of deep azure sky. 

“Le Medecin malgre Lui /” she exclaimed as I 
came in. “Come and sit by me and tell me how you 
managed to captivate Daddy so completely! And 
I promise,” she added, smiling up at me deli¬ 
ciously, “that I won’t ask you for any more 
medical advice!” 

The girl’s attractive presence, the pleasant cool 
of the saloon, the quiet, efficient service made it 
difficult for me to realize that, only a very few 
hours before, I had stumbled through blood into 
a dark and perilous adventure. As I looked into 
Marjorie Garth’s friendly grey eyes, I found the 
present so attractive that it was no effort to me to 
thrust into the background the enigma of the 
future. My adventure, I decided, was opening 
under the most pleasant auspices. 


CHAPTER YII 


THE VICE-CONSUL’S WARNING 

The Naomi was fitted out with the greatest luxury 
imaginable. She was not a large vessel; but she 
was so well designed that every inch of space was 
utilized. The cabin allotted to me was small, 
but beautifully compact and tastefully furnished. 
There was a proper brass bedstead, not a bunk; 
pile carpet, silk curtains, silver-plated toilet fit¬ 
tings, and an electric fan. My traps had been 
unpacked and my clothes stowed away in a cun¬ 
ningly contrived wardrobe. Carstairs, Garth’s 
man, showed me where everything was. He was 
a nice, fresh-faced young fellow of smart military 
appearance. He told me he had served in the war 
with the Royal Engineers. 

Luncheon ended, Marjorie Garth left us to go 
and write letters to be sent ashore in the launch 
for posting. I repaired to my cabin to snatch a 
little sleep in the siesta hour; for I was very tired 
after our disturbed night. But though the gently 
whirring fan kept the atmosphere nicely cool and 
my bed invited repose, I could not sleep. Now 
that I was alone again, I found my thoughts con- 


84 


ISLAND GOLD 


tinually recurring to the slip of oil-skin with its 
enigmatic message. 

I have always found that short commons of 
sleep is an excellent tonic. Though I was physi¬ 
cally worn out, my brain was alive and active, and, 
pulling from my pocket the dead man’s message 
(for so I designated it to myself), I fell to study¬ 
ing it with renewed zest. 

I had it already by heart even to the bars of 
music (though for music I have little ear): but 
I read it over again. What absolute rot it 
sounded! 

Noon. 18-11-18. 

I considered the date for an instant. Why, 
by November 18, 1918, the war was over! The 
Armistice had been signed at Spa seven days 
earlier. And at once a light dawned on me. The 
dead man, I had surmised, had an appointment 
with some one at Cock Island, probably with 
El Cojo’s gang. Realizing that he was about to 
die, the Unknown had left this message for his 
friends; but, probably knowing that an occasional 
ship touched at the island, he had coded his 
instructions lest they should fall into the wrong 
hands. The date of the message seemed 
to give the clue as to why his friends had failed 
to keep their appointment, so that the message 
had remained on the grave until it was found 


THE VICE-CONSUL’S WARNING 85 


months later by Adams. The Armistice had been 
signed: Germany was beaten; and consequently 
the services of such obliging “neutrals” as El Cojo 
and Co. had abruptly ceased. 

With growing excitement, for I felt certain that, 
this time, my deductions were not at fault, I read 
on: 


Flash, flash, much 
The garrison of Kiel 

This absolutely defeated me and I passed on. 

With the compass is best 
Think of the Feast of Orders 

Den Ordensfest! Unconsciously, as I repeated 
the words to myself, the clean white panels of 
the cabin melted away, and there rose before my 
mind a dim picture, a study in grey, an outdoor 
scene across which swept a wintry wind with 
biting blast. ... A leaden sky, grey build¬ 
ings, their roofs deep-thatched with snow, and 
grey-clad troops, masses of them, set about 
a vast square. It was a blurred picture with, 
here and there, a detail clear: rime glistening on 
an officer’s pelisse, the plume of a helmet blown 
out in the icy breeze. ... Ah! I had it! Berlin. 
. . . The Feast of Orders, with the annual 
ceremony of the so-called nailing of the colours. 
I had seen it once, that famous winter parade. 


86 


ISLAND GOLD 


as a boy when my brother Francis and I had been 
on a visit to a cousin of ours, who was a secretary 
at the Berlin Embassy. . . . 

But what did it mean in this connection? What 
had the Feast of Orders, the annual bestowal on 
the old Prussian bureaucracy of thousands of 
crosses and stars and medals, as an economical 
substitute for increases of salary — what had it 
to do with a compass? 

Then it came to me with a flash. ... A 
compass argued a compass bearing, and this bear¬ 
ing was there concealed in this phrase! “Den 
Ordensfesten!” Stay! The date. What was the 
date? And that came back to me, too. . . . 
January 27th, “Kaisers Geburtstag,” the Em¬ 
peror’s birthday. 

By Jove! At last a beam of light was piercing 
the darkness. 

Those two lines meant indubitably: “Take a 
compass bearing of 27 degrees!” 

The next two lines: 

Past the Sugar-Loaf 
You’ll see the Lorelei 

obviously referred to those “peaks” of which the 
“Sailing Directions” had spoken. 

“If you desire the sweetheart.” 

Schdtzchen was the German word. But, ye 
gods, Schatz of which Schdtzchen is the diminu- 


THE VICE-CONSUL’S WARNING 87 


tive, properly speaking, means “treasure.” By 
what form of physical and mental blindness had 
I been smitten to have failed to see this direct 
reference to treasure in the cipher? 

The four bars of music brought me up with a 
jerk. I hummed the tune which I had strummed 
out on John Bard’s piano. It seemed, as I said, 
vaguely familiar as a German ditty of the popular 
sort, but what or where . . . I . . . 

On this I must have fallen asleep. I awoke 
with a start, as one does from an afternoon nap, 
and stared round blankly, trying to recollect 
where I was. There was a little sidelong motion 
in the cabin as the yacht rose and fell at anchor 
to the swell and the electric fan purred gently as 
it revolved. Some one was tapping at the door. 

“Come in!” I cried, and Carstairs put his face 
in. 

“Sir Alexander begs pardon for disturbing you, 
sir,” the man said, “but could you make it con¬ 
venient to go to him at once in his cabin? He 
said as how it was urgent ...” 

“Of course. Tell Sir Alexander I’ll be with 
him immediately ...” 

Garth had a little suite at the far end of the 
saloon, consisting of a small stateroom, very hand¬ 
somely furnished, with sleeping-apartment and 
bath off it. I found him seated in a swivel-chair 
at his desk in conversation with a dark young 


88 


ISLAND GOLD 


man, his face yellowed from the tropics, in a 
creased white duck suit. 

“Ah, Major,” said the baronet, “I’m sorry 
to have had to spoil your forty winks. But a 
rather curious thing has happened. They’re getting 
a warrant out against you for murder. The 
British Vice-Consul here has been good enough 
to come off and give us the tip ...” 

“It’s a most singular thing,” said the Vice- 
Consul. “Last night a poor white, a drunken 
Englishman who lived with a negress in the native 
quarter, had his throat cut. He was a worthless 
creature, called himself Adams; I knew him 
well. In fact, it’s only about a fortnight ago that 
we threw him out of the Consulate. Well, an 
information has been laid against you by two 
citizens who swear that they saw you leave this 
man Adams’s shack in the early hours of the 
morning. 

“Now in the ordinary way nobody in Rodriguez 
makes any bones about a plain murder like this. 
But our friend Adams — or his black lady who, 
incidentally, was also killed — seems to have had 
some amazing political pull. The Procurator- 
General of the Republic in person came down to the 
office half an hour ago to see me about it. He seemed 
scared out of his life, told me he would certainly 
lose his job unless he could produce you for trial. 
Now” — the Vice-Consul cleared his throat and 


THE VICE-CONSUL’S WARNING 89 


drew hard on the black cigar he was smoking — 
“I don’t know anything about you, Major, or your 
business,” he looked sharply at me, “and I’m not 
enquiring. But I do know that, while straightfor¬ 
ward murder in Rodriguez is scarcely a penal 
offence, dabbling in politics is a very serious mat¬ 
ter. What I came off to tell you was to beat it 
while the going’s good . . . That’s all!” 

“It’s extremely kind of you to have taken this 
trouble,” I replied, “and I highly appreciate your 
discretion in the matter. But surely, if the war¬ 
rant is out, it will be served at once. After all, 
we’re within the three-mile limit ...” 

The Vice-Consul waved his hand. 

“In this illustrious Republic,” he remarked 
dryly, “no business of any description is ever 
done in the siesta hours. Even during our peri¬ 
odical revolutions there’s a truce every day be¬ 
tween noon and 4 p.m. But you’ll want to hurry; 
for, as soon as it cools off, you’ll have a bunch 
of coffee-coloured dons alongside in the harbour¬ 
master’s launch!” 

“I’ll see about getting under way at once!” 
said Garth, and hastened out. 

The Vice-Consul picked up his Panama and 
approached me. He looked cautiously about him 
and lowered his voice as he spoke. 

“I’m risking my job by doing this,” he said, 
“for the Consul’s down with fever and I’m acting 


90 


ISLAND GOLD 


on my own responsibility. But Bard was telling 
us about you at the club, about your D.S.O. and 
that, in the war, and it’s the least a fellow can do 
who didn’t fight — I’m rotten through and through 
with malaria, you know — to help a chap who 
did. Now, listen! You’re in great danger. You’ve 
run up against the biggest bunch of crooks in 
Central America ...” 

“You mean El Cojo and his gang?” 

“Aye ...” 

“Who is this man, El Cojo?” 

“No one knows. No one ever sees him. No 
one knows where he lives. Some say he is a 
Mexican. But his power is tremendous and his 
vengeance swift and terrible. I co dd tell you 
stories ... You should be safe on this yacht. 
But take my advice and don’t leave it until you 
can go ashore under the American or the British 
flag!” 

He gave me his hand. 

“I shan’t forget this service,” I said warmly, 
“if there’s anything I can ever do in return . . .” 

“Well,” he answered slowly, “I was recom¬ 
mended for the M.B.E. once. But the F. 0. 
turned it down. If you had any influence . . .” 

“If Sir Robert is still my friend,” I assured 
him, “you shall have it. And perhaps it might 
be an O.B.E. Write me down your name and 
address ...” 


THE VICE-CONSUL’S WARNING 91 


As we emerged on the deck, the crew were busy 
getting the yacht ready for sea. There was a 
bit of commotion at the gangway. Garth and 
Captain Lawless stood at the head of the ladder 
in animated conversation with a very trim young 
man, beautifully dressed in spotless white drill. 

“Hullo,” said the Vice-Consul, “it’s Custrin, 
your new doctor!” 

“It’s no good,” Garth was saying as we ap¬ 
proached the group, “we’ll be away in ten 
minutes, Doctor, and there’s so much work going 
forward on deck that your friends would only 
be in the way ...” 

“But, sir,” the young man urged, “they need 
only stay for a minute. As distinguished residents 
of Rodriguez, they wished to have the honour of 
meeting you, of showing you courtesy. They set 
great store by such things here and if you refuse, 
I’m very much afraid they’ll take it amiss . . .” 

I glanced over the side. In a rowboat at the 
foot of the ladder sat three swarthy gentlemen in 
frock-coats, their large dark eyes turned appeal¬ 
ingly up to the deck of the Naomi . 

“You’ll tell your friends,” said the baronet, 
“how much I appreciate their great attention and 
how much I regret that circumstances prevent me 
from receiving their visit on board. Captain 
Lawless, the Vice-Consul’s launch!” 

Lawless gave an order, and while the doctor 


92 


ISLAND GOLD 


descended the ladder and spoke to his party in the 
boat, the Vice-Consul took his leave and boarded 
his launch. 

Five minutes later the Naomi , curtseying to the 
long green swell, pointed her bows toward the 
fronded headlands which marked the entrance to 
the harbour. As we passed out between the 
bluffs, the dull report of a gun drifted out to us 
over the freshening breeze. At the same moment, 
in a smother of spray, a launch came tearing 
out of the port, a mere speck in the shimmering 
green sea far astern. 

At my side on the bridge Garth laughed. 

“Here comes the warrant!” he said. “Captain, 
is that launch back yonder going to overhaul us?” 

Lawless took his freckled hand off the engine- 
room telegraph and looked back. 

“Huh!” he grunted, “not on this side of hell. 
Or any other!” 


CHAPTER VIII 


DR. CUSTRIN 

It was not until dinner that evening that I had 
the opportunity of meeting Dr. Custrin. The 
Naomi was steaming along in the gorgeous pag¬ 
eantry of sunset and the warm glow of the dying 
day was warring with the soft lights of the electric 
candles on the dinner-table when I came into the 
saloon. 

Garth introduced me to the doctor. He was a 
sleek, smooth young man with hair like black satin 
and a beautifully trained small black moustache. 
His hands and feet were small and well-made, and 
there would have been a touch of effeminacy 
about him but for his otherwise manly bearing, 
his bold, black eyes and a firm, pleasant voice. 
A certain narrowness of the eyes and a curl of 
the nostrils told me, who have an eye for such 
things, that, probably, as his name indicated, he 
was of Jewish extraction. In conversation I 
elicited that he had been born in Mauritius, edu¬ 
cated at Cape Town, and had taken his degree at 
King’s College Hospital in London. Garth’s New 
York office, it appeared, had picked him up at 
Colon, where he was studying Colonel Goethals’s 


94 


ISLAND GOLD 


wonderful arrangements for the extermination of 
yellow fever and malaria. 

Lawless and Mackay, the chief engineer, a sen¬ 
tentious Scot, who only opened his mouth to utter 
a platitude or to put food or drink in it, dined 
with us. Garth made me sit next to Marjorie, who 
looked ravishing in a white lace evening frock. 

“Put the two war veterans together!” the 
baronet commanded. “My little girl here,” he 
explained to me, “drove a car at the front. She 
has the Military Medal.” 

“Daddy!” expostulated Marjorie, and a warm 
flush coloured her cheeks. 

“I would never have given my consent,” Garth 
added, “but she just didn’t ask me for it!” 

“My dear old thing,” said the girl. “You make 
me look ridiculous by bragging about my silly 
little trips around the bases when I’m sure Dr. 
Custrin or Major Okewood saw a hundred times 
more of the war than I ever did!” 

“I never got out of the base at the Gape,” said 
the doctor. “The East African campaign kept us 
too busy for any one to be spared.” 

“And I,” was my retort, “never went back to 
France after the Somme!” 

“Were you wounded?” asked Garth. 

“Badly?” questioned Marjorie in reply to my 
nod. 

“Nothing to write home about,” I answered. 


DR. CUSTRIN 


95 


“When I came out of hospital, I went into the 
Intelligence.” 

“How fearfully thrilling!” exclaimed the girl. 
“Wasn’t it frightfully exciting?” 

“It wasn’t the front!” I replied. 

After dinner on the deck, under a vast span of 
velvet sky spangled with stars, I found myself 
alone with Marjorie Garth. A broad band of 
yellow light shone out from the smoke-room, where 
the others sat and talked over their coffee. Above 
us on the bridge the form of the man at the wheel 
bulked black. 

We strolled up and down in silence. For 
myself I was quite overcome by the majesty of the 
tropical night at sea. 

“The Intelligence,” asked Marjorie suddenly, 
“that’s the Secret Service, isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” I agreed. 

“You were very modest about it at dinner,” 
she remarked. 

I shrugged my shoulders. 

“I only stated the plain truth,” I returned. 
“In the fighting troops, remember, every fifth 
man became a casualty and three months was 
the average run of the platoon officer!” 

“Yet,” commented the girl, “you seem like a 
man who has been in tight places. I shouldn’t 
say to look at you that you’ve had a placid or 
easy existence. Like mine, for instance. Some- 


96 


ISLAND GOLD 


times I think it’s only men of action like you 
who know how to grapple with life. Can you 
imagine me in an emergency, for instance?” 

“Yes,” I said, “I believe I can. You’ve got 
a brave eye, Miss Garth. I think one can judge 
people’s temperaments, as you judge horses’, by 
the eye.” 

She shook her head and laughed. 

“What does this sort of life teach anybody? 
This beautiful ship, these well-trained sailors, the 
splendid service that Daddy’s money can buy? 
My dear man, it’s no good flattering me about my 
brave eye. Money makes a sordid barrier be¬ 
tween my life and any really thrilling crisis! I 
shall be kept in cotton-wool till the end of the 
chapter.” 

“What a strange person you are!” I exclaimed. 
“Girls of your age with your position and your 
. . . your . . . attractions don’t find time 

for philosophizing as a rule. You ought to be 
enjoying your youth instead of meditating about 
life. I don’t mean to be inquisitive; but . . . 
are you very unhappy?” 

We had halted near the rail. We were stand¬ 
ing very close together and I felt the touch of 
her warm young body against my arm. 

She turned and looked at me. Again I told 
myself that this girl was the most beautiful, the 
most unspoiled creature I had ever met. 


DR. CUSTRIN 


97 


“I’ve only once been thoroughly happy,” she 
answered rather wistfully, “and that was when I 
was with the army in France. I loved the 
romance, the adventure of it all, the good com¬ 
radeship, not only between the women, but also 
between the men and the women. Money wasn’t 
everything then. I was an individual with my 
own personality, my own friends. But what am 
I now? The daughter of Garth, the millionaire. 
And they print my picture in the weekly papers 
because one day I shall have a great deal of 
money which Daddy has worked all his life to 
make. I’ve never had any brothers and sisters, 
and my mother has been dead for years. I’ve had 
to live my whole life with money as my com¬ 
panion. And money’s not a bit companionable!” 

She smiled whimsically at me, then gazed down 
abstractedly at the phosphorescent water thump¬ 
ing against the side of the ship. 

“This yacht! — ” she went on. “I have every¬ 
thing a girl could possibly require here — every¬ 
thing except my freedom!” 

“Good Lord!” I observed, “you’ll have that, 
too, when you marry! You’ve got plenty of time 
for that!” 

Marjorie Garth laughed. 

“My dear man,” she protested, “don’t you 
know it’s easier to marry off a girl with no money 
than one who will have as much as I shall? To 


98 


ISLAND GOLD 


Daddy every young man I meet is a fortune- 
hunter. If I run a boy home from the golf-club 
in my car, I am cross-questioned regarding his 
‘intentions’; if a man takes me out dancing in 
the afternoon, there’s a scene. And Daddy’s 
taste in men is vile; I’m not alluding to you — I 
mean at home! But I’ve no use for the second 
generation of millionaires and I’ve told Daddy 
so. I’d rather marry a beggar than some of the 
rich men’s sons he tries to throw in my way ...” 

Lucky beggar, thought I. 

“I don’t know why I’ve told you all this,” the 
girl concluded. “You seem to draw me out. Or 
perhaps it’s the night. Oh, look! Wish!” 

A star fell gleaming across the sky. 

“I have,” said I (it was one of those idle wishes 

' >» 

which a poor man must not even admit to him¬ 
self). 

“Was it about your trip to Cock Island?” 

“I’ll lose my wish if I tell!” I replied. “As 
a matter of fact, it was not!” 

Suddenly she put a warm soft hand on mine. 
Her touch made my heart beat faster. 

“Is it a Secret Service mission?” she asked. 

Caution is second nature to a man who has 
served his apprenticeship in the silent Corps. In 
that balmy air, beneath a brilliant moon hanging 
like some great lamp in the sky, it was hard to 
refuse a woman’s pleading, especially a girl like 


DR. CUSTRIN 


99 


this, bending forward with sparkling eyes and 
parted lips so close to me that I could detect the 
fragrance of her hair. I put my other hand over 
hers as it rested on mine on the rail. 

“You can trust me,” she pleaded. “I am sure 
there is something mysterious about your trip to 
this tiny island. I know you are not going on 
Government survey” (this was the pretext which 
Garth had given out for my visit to Cock Island), 
“for the Navy always do that sort of work. Tell 
me your secret!” 

I had to catch hold of myself, for she was 
almost irresistible. I looked away from her, 
steeling myself to a refusal. 

What I might have done I cannot say, for what 
man can account for actions performed under the 
magic of the tropical moon? But at that moment 
my nostrils detected the scent of a cigarette quite 
close. 

I glanced quickly round. To all appearances 
we were alone. Behind us the white smokestack 
of the Naomi reared itself into the night: on either 
hand the deck was quite deserted: the only human 
being visible was the black form of the man at 
the wheel silhouetted against the faint glow of the 
binnacle light. But the acrid fragrance of Turk¬ 
ish tobacco stole up my nostrils and the possibility 
of a listener within earshot brought me swiftly 
back to earth. 


) 


> 


100 


ISLAND GOLD 


“I’m afraid there’s no mystery about my little 
jaunt,” said I, turning to the girl, “you know all 
there is to know!” 

I spoke as nonchalantly as possible. But I 
would not meet the reproachful gaze she turned 
upon me. Then she snatched her hand away. 

“I’m afraid you must think me horribly in¬ 
quisitive!” she observed coldly. 

There was a footstep on the deck. Dr. Custrin 
stood behind us. Between his fingers a cigarette 
sent up a little spiral of blue smoke; across his 
arm he carried a shining silver wrap. 

“Sir Alexander asked me to tell you to put 
this round your shoulders,” he said to Marjorie, 
and unfolded the silver scarf. “The wind is 
freshening.” 

The girl drew the wrap about her shoulders. 
The doctor looked at the two of us. 

“What a wonderful night!” he remarked. “In 
these latitudes the moon seems to exercise a 
strange influence upon us. For example, your 
father has been telling me the whole story of 
his early life, Miss Garth, and I believe I have 
been unbosoming my aspirations and ambitions 
to him. But confidences under the moon one 
is apt to regret in the morning, eh, Major?” 

He spoke perfectly suavely and with no trace of 
impertinence in his manner. But there was a 
hint of a double meaning in his words (which 


DR. CUSTRIN 


101 


clearly indicated that he had overheard, at any 
rate, the end of our conversation) that jarred on 
me. 

“You need have no fears about Major 
Okewood,” replied Marjorie with just the faintest 
touch of scorn in her voice. “I’m sure he is the 
pattern of discretion. I think,” she added, “I am 
feeling the tiniest bit chilly. You promised to 
play for us, Doctor. Won’t you come into the 
saloon? There is a piano there!” 

Her gaze travelled proudly past me as she 
turned to Custrin. She made it as clear as was 
compatible with the laws of hospitality that her 
invitation did not include me. It was her woman’s 
way of getting her own back. I loved her for it, 
but I took a violent dislike to Custrin. 

I mumbled some excuse about having to go to 
the chartroom, and they left me. Presently from 
the saloon came the rhythmic strains of the “Rosen- 
Kavalier,” most sensual, most entrancing of all 
Strauss’s music, played with a master-hand. The 
“Liebestod,” Grieg, Massenet’s “Air des Larmes,” 
Schumann — Custrin ran from one to another 
while the Naomi stolidly thumped her way through 
the hissing sea. And always, curse his impudence! 
the fellow played love music . . . 

One by one members of the crew drifted to the 
head of the companionway until there was quite a 
company of them outlined against the yellow light 


102 


ISLAND GOLD 


that shone up from the cosy saloon. I remained 
leaning against the rail, my chin on my chest, 
my pipe in my mouth, and let my thoughts drift 
. . . Adams coughing over his pannikin, John 
Bard, his honest face troubled, looking round that 
house of death, the yellow-faced Vice-Consul pull¬ 
ing on his black cigar. 

But always I found my mind harking back 
to the ungainly silhouette framed in the doorway 
of the hut and to the sinister echo of his footsteps 
in the yard as the stranger turned his back on the 
scene of slaughter which, I doubted not, had been 
of his contriving. What had the Vice-Consul 
said? “His power is tremendoiis, his vengeance 
swift and terrible!” Who was this lame man 
whom nobody saw, yet whom everybody feared? 
There was something of the insistence of a night¬ 
mare in the way in which the glimpse I had had 
of him hung in my thoughts, confounding itself 
with the ineffaceable image of that club-footed 
man whom I had seen fall lifeless — how 4 many 
years ago it seemed now!—before my brother’s 
smoking automatic. 

Well, whoever El Cojo was, Mexican or South 
American, I was out of his clutches now. The 
rail of the Naomi , quivering beneath my hand to 
the leap of the seas, gave me confidence. I 
knocked the ashes out of my pipe and went below. 


CHAPTER IX 


CONCERNING A LONG DRINK 

The weather continued magnificent. The bar¬ 
ometer on the chart-house wall was high and 
steady, the sea like a sheet of painted glass. On 
board the Naomi the perfect luxury, the admirable 
efficiency of the service, might have led one to 
fancy one’s self at Cowes but for the boundless 
expanse of the Pacific surrounding us. The sun¬ 
burnt faces, the natty white caps, and the spotless 
drill of the crew, the brass-work polished until the 
blaze of the fierce sun upon it made the eyes ache, 
the long chairs set out invitingly under the striped 
deck awnings — it all brought back Regatta Week 
to me so vividly that I sometimes imagined one had 
only to look over the ship’s side to see the boats 
setting down visitors at the Squadron steps. 

There were deck quoits, shuffleboard, and vari¬ 
ous other ship’s games for our amusement. But 
it was too hot for violent exercise. The men rigged 
up a huge canvas bath, contrived out of a mainsail, 
in the bows forward, and here each morning before 
breakfast, Garth, Custrin, and I used to disport 
ourselves like young seals in their tank at the zoo. 
For the rest, the day passed very pleasantly with 


104 


ISLAND GOLD 


a little gossip, a little music, a little bridge. We 
three men, following a custom which Garth had 
established, took our trick at the wheel, and when 
Custrin had taken his watch, Marjorie reported for 
duty and proved herself the best helmsman of us 
all. 

As a matter of fact, I had no time to be bored. 
I spent many hours in the chart-house with Garth 
and Lawless settling the details of our contem¬ 
plated expedition. There was, in truth, much to 
plot out and arrange. The Captain was more 
emphatic than ever against the idea of anybody 
beyond us three being let into the secret of the 
treasure-hunt. In fact, as our discussions pro¬ 
ceeded, he showed himself increasingly reluctant 
to grant us as long as a week on the island. 

“It’s asking too much, Sir Alexander,” he said, 
shaking his red head, “to expect the crew to remain 
cooped up in the yacht in sight of green land and 
not a man allowed ashore. I might hold ’em in 
hand for a couple of days; but after that it will 
be difficult, very difficult, as well you and the Major 
here must know!” 

It was Garth, with his quick business mind, 
who made the suggestion which solved the problem. 
Raising his head from the chart which he had been 
studying while Lawless, in an aggrieved tone, was 
presenting his case, he said: 

“I’ve got it. You can maroon us!” 


CONCERNING A LONG DRINK 105 


“Maroon you?” repeated the Captain in a puz¬ 
zled voice. 

“Aye! Dump us ashore and then take the yacht 
to Alcedo!” 

Alcedo, he explained to us with chart and “Sail¬ 
ing Directions,” was an islet lying some ninety 
miles west of Cock Island, a small, uninhabited 
rock, the home of seabirds of all kinds. 

“You can get some shooting,” Sir Alexander 
added, “and if the ‘Sailing Directions’ speak true, 
good fishing. There’s a fair landing on the north 
face, it says here, and a run ashore will do the 
men all the good in the world. You won’t have 
above two or three days at the most at the rock 
before it will be time to put about and sail back 
to fetch us off!” 

Lawless raised various objections, all of which 
did him the greatest credit. He didn’t like leaving 
us. Suppose something happened to the Naomi? 
But Garth swept all objections aside. Then Lawless 
played his last trump. 

“And what about Miss Garth?” he queried. 
“How will she like leaving you ashore on an unin¬ 
habited island? Or do you propose to take her 
with you?” 

Garth rubbed his nose rather sheepishly. 

“Hm,” he mused. Then, “Okewood,” he re¬ 
marked, “this will be a little difficult. How about 
taking Marjie ashore at Cock Island with us?” 


106 


ISLAND GOLD 


But I promptly negatived this idea. 

“Out of the question,” I retorted. “We’re 
going to rough it, Sir Alexander. And it will be no 
life for your daughter. Why, we aren’t even taking 
a servant!” 

Garth jibbed at this. It would be bad enough 
leaving Marjie, he grumbled, and how he would 
face her he didn’t know. But he must have his 
man with him. He must have Carstairs. In that 
I was inclined to support him. I had taken a fancy 
to Carstairs. I liked his honest, sensible face; he 
knew Garth and his ways; besides, he seemed a 
knowledgeable sort of chap and I had an idea that 
his experience with the sappers in the war might 
prove uncommonly useful when we pitched our 
little camp. It was ultimately decided that Car¬ 
stairs should accompany us. 

Then Garth suggested that we should take 
Custrin as well. 

“Capital fellow, the doctor,” he remarked, “what 
the Americans call a good mixer. I like Custrin. 
And he’ll be useful, you know, Okewood, in case 
of snake-bite or anything like that, eh?” 

Now, as I have explained, I hadn’t particularly 
cottoned to Custrin. Since the first night out, he 
had made famous progress with Marjorie, and 
while Garth and I were sweltering in the hold, as¬ 
sembling equipment and supplies for our expedi¬ 
tion, she and the doctor sat for hours at the piano 


CONCERNING A LONG DRINK 107 


in the saloon. I have always tried to be honest 
with myself and I may as well admit that I was 
desperately envious of Custrin’s delightfully easy 
manner. He was never gauche or sheepish with 
Marjorie, and I knew what a boor she had set me 
down in her estimation. 

So I demurred from the proposal of Sir 
Alexander. The party was big enough, I urged; 
to add another mouth would mean seriously in¬ 
creasing the amount of supplies we should have to 
take with us. 

“But Custrin’s a first-class geologist as well,” 
pleaded the baronet, “and his knowledge should 
prove most valuable in our quest!” 

I felt a very unpleasant suspicion dawn within 
me. Was it possible that Garth had told Custrin 
about the grave on the island and the clue that 
lay in my letter-case? 

“Have you told Custrin about the treasure?” 
I asked bluntly. 

Garth looked decidedly uncomfortable. 

“The doctor’s a most reliable fellow and highly 
recommended, very highly recommended to me. 
You can see his references if you wish, Major. He 
is quite one of us, you know, and I did not think 
there was any harm. . . . Really I think he’d 
be a distinct asset. Besides, he’ll be horribly dis¬ 
appointed now if we don’t take him!” 

Then, of course, I knew that Garth had told 


108 


ISLAND GOLD 


Custrin the whole story and had definitely promised 
him into the bargain that he should join our party. 
I remembered now that the two had been in the 
smoke-room alone together for an hour or more 
after lunch. I breathed a little prayer of thanks¬ 
giving that in my almost wholly Irish nature a little 
store, an isolated stronghold, as it were, of caution, 
legacy of some unknown ancestor, was included. 
Throughout my career in the Secret Service I have 
made it a practice, when disclosure is necessary, 
to disclose only as much as is absolutely essential 
to the business in hand. My brother Francis, prob¬ 
ably the greatest secret agent our country has ever 
had, gave me this tip. 

Accordingly, I had told Garth nothing of 
El Cojo, the man of mystery, of his appearance at 
Adams’s hut, or of the Vice-Consul’s warning. 
Apart altogether from this cautious instinct of 
mine, I knew next to nothing of this romantic cut¬ 
throat, and until I did I had no intention of 
jeopardizing my chances of sailing with Garth, the 
owner of the Naomi , by alarming him. I now 
realized that anything I might have told Garth 
about El Cojo, the baronet would have inevitably 
passed on to the doctor. 

As for Custrin, I had nothing whatever against 
him. But he was a stranger — and in our job, if 
we don’t necessarily 66 ’eave ’arf a brick” at the 
stranger, we are exceedingly cold to him. Custrin 


CONCERNING A LONG DRINK 109 


was a perfectly civil, unassuming Englishman; but 
in my career I have refused confidence to many a 
fellow countryman far more patently trustworthy 
than he. His rather mixed upbringing would, for 
one thing, have prompted me to wariness and 
Garth’s ready confidence in him really rather horri¬ 
fied me. I was quite determined not to have him 
on the island with me and I said so as frankly as 
possible. On that, with rather an ill grace, Garth 
capitulated. 

The Naomi carried a small camp equipment with 
two light and portable Armstrong huts in sections. 
There was a fold-up camp bedstead for Garth, 
while I had my battered old Wolseley valise and 
my flea-bag from France. In addition to our pro¬ 
visions, such as biscuits, tinned food of all kinds, 
groceries, and a suitable stock of drinks including 
a case of soda-water, we added, as general stores, 
some electric torches, a couple of ship’s lamps and 
a good supply of candles, a large picnic-basket, 
some mosquito netting, a medicine chest, a couple 
of axes, and two spades and two picks which 
Lawless extracted from the stoke-hold. There 
were kitchen utensils for Carstairs, who, it ap¬ 
peared, was an excellent cook. 

Garth had a pair of shot-guns and a Winchester 
and the three of us had an automatic pistol apiece. 
This constituted our armoury. I thought of those 
“volcanic peaks” of which the “Sailing Directions” 


110 


ISLAND GOLD 


spoke and sighed for a box of guncotton, a tube of 
primers, and some lengths of fuse such as we used 
to carry with the battery in France. But, well 
equipped as she was, the Naomi did not run to H.E. 

This happened on our third day out of Rodri¬ 
guez. At dinner that evening the Captain an¬ 
nounced that, if all went well, we ought to sight 
Cock Island about dawn two days hence. 

In the chart-house that evening Custrin pleaded 
with me to reconsider my decision not to take him 
ashore with us. I told him as nicely as possible that 
all our arrangements were made and could not 
now be altered. He then asked me to let him see 
the message. Now I had not shown this to Garth 
(or to anybody else except Bard) nor had I vouch¬ 
safed to our host any information whatever on the 
subject. I was still very largely in the dark as to 
its meaning and I was appreciative of Garth’s tact 
in not pressing me on the subject. So I told 
Custrin that I was still working on the message and 
was not showing it to anybody just then. 

‘Tm sorry,” he said at once; “I didn’t mean to 
be tactless, Okewood. But I’m a pretty fair hand 
at languages, French or Spanish or Dutch or 
German, and that kind of thing, you know. I 
thought I might be useful. Or perhaps it’s in 
cipher?” 

Custrin’s affectation of nonchalance was very 
well done. But I have had so much of this kind of 


CONCERNING A LONG DRINK 111 


spell-binding tried on me in my time that I de¬ 
tected without difficulty a little note of anxiety in 
his voice. A very inquisitive young man, was my 
mental note. But aloud I said: 

‘‘Thanks for the offer, Doctor. I’ll bear it in 
mind. When I think two heads are better than one 
on this thing, I’ll let you know!” 

That was straight enough, one would have 
thought. But he was a persistent beggar, was 
Custrin. I’m dashed if he didn’t get Garth to 
tackle me. Our worthy host’s rather elephantine 
attempts at diplomacy, however, were not difficult 
to counter, and I had my way about keeping the 
message to myself without, I think, offending his 
amour propre. I should have dismissed the inci¬ 
dent from my mind but for a strange and rather 
disquieting event which took place the following 
night. 

I had gone below, preparatory to turning in, after 
another disastrous encounter with Marjorie. When 
I came off the bridge after taking my turn at the 
wheel, I found her standing alone at the rail. 
Since our little passage at arms the first night out, 
while she had not ostensibly avoided me, she had 
not given me the opportunity for another tete-a- 
tete. Her father, it appeared, had told her that she 
could not go ashore with us on Cock Island, and she 
wanted me, as leader of the expedition, to intercede 
with him. 


112 


ISLAND GOLD 


We were going to rough it on the island and a 
woman would have been impossible. And so I told 
her. I also thought it quite likely that the surf- 
bar mentioned by Adams (one always finds some¬ 
thing of the sort round isolated islets like this) 
would make landing dangerous, and we should be 
lucky, I surmised, if we escaped with nothing worse 
than a good soaking. Marjorie was at first plead¬ 
ing, then indignant, and at last angry. There was 
a good deal of the plethoric temperament of her 
father in the toss of her head with which, in disgust 
at my obstinacy, she turned and left me on the 
deck. And I, feeling the criminal every man feels 
when he has displeased a charming girl, slunk 
below to my bunk. 

I had changed into pyjamas when Custrin, who 
had the cabin next to mine, put his head in at the 
door. 

“Fm just going to get a ‘peg,’ ” he said. “You 
look as though you could do with one yourself. 
Shall I bring you one down?” 

A drink was emphatically what I needed in the 
frame of mind in which I found myself, so I grate¬ 
fully accepted his offer. 

“And make it a stiff one!” I called out after 
him. 

Then Carstairs, who had been working like a 
Trojan all the evening packing, oiling guns, and 
greasing boots, fetched me away to the little sort 


CONCERNING A LONG DRINK 113 


of pantry-place at the end of the flat which was his 
special domain, to consult me about the clothes I 
was taking. When I got back to my cabin, my 
drink in a long glass stood on the chest of drawers. 
There was no sign of Custrin. 

Carstairs, in shirt and trousers, was simply drip¬ 
ping with perspiration. He looked absolutely 
all in. 

“Here,” I said, “you seem to be more in need of 
a ‘peg’ than I am, Carstairs. Suppose you take 
hold of that glass and show what you can do 
with it!” 

The offer was scarcely in accordance with the 
discipline of the Naomi , and Carstairs glanced 
cautiously up and down the corridor before he 
seized the glass and with a whispered “Here’s 
luck, sir!” drained it. 


• • • • • • • • • 

I don’t know how long I had been asleep when I 
awoke with the impression that my cabin door had 
opened. Then I remembered, with a flash, that on 
going to lock it as usual before getting into my bunk 
I had found the key to be missing. I had searched 
the floor of the cabin and the corridor for it in vain. 
Carstairs had turned in, and I was loath to disturb 
him after his heavy day. 

There was no moon on this night, and my cabin 
was quite dark. The Naomi trembled to the thump 


114 


ISLAND GOLD 


of the propeller and at the wash-basin some fitting 
or other rattled a merry little jig. Otherwise, all 
was still. I was about to turn over on my side and 
go to sleep again when a slight noise caught my 
ear. My hand flashed instantly to the electric 
switch and the cabin was flooded with light. 

Custrin stood in the doorway. He was in his 
pyjamas barefooted. His eyes were closed and one 
hand rested on the chest of drawers just inside the 
door. He was muttering to himself. As I sprang 
out of my bunk, he turned round and, still mutter¬ 
ing, made his way back to his own room next 
door. 

I dashed after him. The corridor was quite 
dark, and by the time I had found the switch in 
Custrin’s cabin, the doctor was in his berth, to all 
intents and purposes sleeping peacefully. 

“Trust all men, but cut the pack!” is a favourite 
saying of my brother Francis. With that document 
in my possession I had no desire to be disturbed 
by surprise visitors, even though they walked in 
their sleep. I now blamed myself for my slackness 
in not making Carstairs find the key of my door. 
I went straight off* to his bunk. 

Carstairs was asleep on his back, snoring 
merrily. I tapped on the side of the bunk and, 
finding that this failed to awaken him, shook him 
by the arm. He never budged. The snoring 
stopped; but he slept on. 


CONCERNING A LONG DRINK 115 


I shook him violently again. Never had I seen 
a man sleep like this! I put my two hands under 
his shoulders, raised him up and jerked him to and 
fro. But he remained a dead weight in my grip, 
sunk in deep sleep. 

There was a step in the corridor outside. I put 
my head out. Mackay, the engineer, was there on 
his way to his bunk. 

“Hsst!” I whispered. “Mackay, what do you 
make of this? I can’t wake Carstairs ...” 

Mackay thrust his grizzled head into the cabin. 
He bent down over the sleeping man and sniffed 
audibly. 

“The man’s drunk!” he remarked casually. 

My conscience smote me. But then I reflected. 
Could one “peg” have reduced the model Carstairs 
to this state? Unless, of course, he had already 
been drinking that evening. I had detected no sign 
of it about him . . . 

“I wonder if I should fetch the doctor . . . ” 
I began. 

“Hoots!” broke in the engineer, “let the man 
bide. He’s a guid lad, but, mon, he’ll have a sore 
heid to-morrow! I’m thinking Sir Alec wull gie 
him all the doctoring he wants!” 

“After all,” said I, “I don’t think we need dis¬ 
turb the doctor!” 

Custrin’s curiosity about the message, the inex¬ 
plicable disappearance of my key, the drink the 


116 


ISLAND GOLD 


doctor had prepared for me which I had given to 
Carstairs, and the servant’s drunken stupor, Cust- 
rin’s visit to my cabin . . . my mind sprang 
from rung to rung in this ladder of curious happen¬ 
ings. What had John Bard told me about El Cojo’s 
gang? 66 . . .a tremendous organization with 

an immense network of spies as widespread and 
efficient as the Mafia of Italy!” 

My hand went instinctively to the inside pocket 
of my pyjamas, a pocket with a button-up flap 
specially designed which has rendered me good 
service in sleeping-cars and cabins half round the 
world. I felt beneath my fingers the crackle of 
the oil-silk in its flannel cover. 

I still held my secret guarded. I congratulated 
myself on my firmness in refusing to let this per¬ 
sistent Master Custrin accompany the expedition. 
But we had not yet reached the island. I must be 
watchful, watchful . . . 

Half an hour later, as I sat on the edge of my 
bunk smoking a cigarette, there came a tap at the 
door. Garth, looking strangely big and unwieldy 
in his pyjamas, stood outside. 

“Come up at once!” he whispered. “Don’t 
trouble to dress. There’s no one about!” 

He glided away. When I emerged on deck the 
eastern sky was streaked with light. Lawless w&s 
on the bridge, Garth at his side. 

Silently the Captain pointed to the horizon. 


CONCERNING A LONG DRINK 117 


Away on the port bow a faint grey blur rested 
lightly on the straight edge of the ocean like a wisp 
of mist on a lake at dawn. 

“Cock Island!” said the skipper. 


CHAPTER X 


THE GRAVE IN THE CLEARING 

“Till Monday, then!” said Garth as Lawless 
stepped into the launch. 

“To-day week it is, sir!” returned the Captain as 
Carstairs cast him the painter. 

“You might fire the gun to let us know you’re 
back,” cried the baronet. 

“Right-o!” 

Lawless turned to bend over the engine. Then 
he looked round quickly and grinned. 

“Good luck!” he cried, “and good hunting!” and 
waved a friendly hand. With that he pushed over 
the lever and with a mighty flurry of propeller and 
vast bustle among the sea-birds on the foreshore, 
the Naomi s launch throbbed her way out into the 
bay towards where, spanning as it seemed the har¬ 
bour’s narrowest part, a creamy band of white 
spume marked the surf-line. Silently we watched 
the pretty craft, her paint and brass-work flashing 
in the morning sun, gliding through the green 
water. Then Lawless raised an arm in a parting 
greeting and the white launch melted into the 
spume and spray of the open sea. 

We stood on a long sloping beach of gleaming 


THE GRAVE IN THE CLEARING 119 


white sand shut in on all sides save the sea by lofty 
grey rocks. Their jagged points out-topped the 
bright-green fronds of the waving palm-trees which 
grew almost down to the water’s edge. Their 
column-like appearance, coupled with the singular 
silence of the island, gave me a queer sort of 
solemn feeling like being in a cathedral. 

Some three hundred yards from where the foam- 
crested rollers beat their thunderous measure on 
the beach, the ground rose abruptly. The sand 
ended and became merged in a tangle of coarse 
grass. Alternating with a wild and luxuriant 
undergrowth of a great variety of tree ferns and 
other plants, it formed a kind of tasselling to a 
great curtain of greenery which seemed to rise sheer 
from the sea. 

The verdure was so dense that it completely hid 
the bases of the pointed cliffs which, clustered 
together like a faggot of wood, formed the high 
central part of the island. From some hidden 
source a clear, cold stream of water came plunging 
down from the cliff, rushing and gurgling until 
it lost itself in the sea. 

It was the first time I had ever set foot on an 
uninhabited shore. It was a curious sensation. 
The sea-birds wheeled aloft with their harsh, mel¬ 
ancholy cries; among the trees above the beach 
there was sometimes the flash of a brilliantly 
plumaged bird and here and there some animal 


120 


ISLAND GOLD 


rustled in the undergrowth. But otherwise a deep 
silence seemed to brood over the island. There 
was an atmosphere of expectancy about the place 
which rather intrigued me. 

I lost no time in setting about choosing a site 
for our camp. The appearance of the foreshore, 
exposed to the full force of the wind in unfavour¬ 
able weather, did not impress me favourably, nor, 
owing to the danger from lightning in the thunder¬ 
storms that spring up so suddenly in these climes, 
did the obvious solution of erecting our huts under 
the shelter of the trees higher up on the shore 
commend itself. Moreover, I knew very little about 
conditions on Cock Island, and, were there any wild 
animals about, it would be as well, I reflected, to 
pitch our camp in some spot not easily accessible 
to attack. 

After exploring round a bit, I came upon, be¬ 
hind a mantle of hanging creeper, the mouth of a 
cave. Set in the lofty grey rocks, dominating the 
beach, it was well clear of high tide-level and 
clean and dry into the bargain. The roof sloped 
somewhat, but there was ample clearance for 
Garth’s six feet when he stood erect, and the cave 
ran back for some twenty feet into the rock. 

So we plumped for the cave. Having stripped 
to vest and trousers, Garth and I started carrying 
up our stores from where the launch of the Naomi 
had deposited them on the beach. While we 


THE GRAVE IN THE CLEARING 121 


stacked the various boxes neatly at the back of the 
cave, Carstairs was busy fitting up what he called 
his “field kitchen.” Higher up the rock, in a 
little cavity well sheltered from the wind, he in¬ 
stalled his Primus stove, his cook-pots, and other 
impedimenta. 

It was with the utmost reluctance that I spared 
the time for this tiring but necessary fatigue. I 
was on fire to be off into the interior of the island 
and locate the grave. Garth, too, was as keen as 
mustard and fairly jumped at my proposal that, 
as soon as the stores were stowed away, we should 
set forth on a voyage of discovery. 

It was a long job, for the cases were heavy and 
the going bad, but when I stood on the beach below 
and, with the roar of the ocean in my ears, looked 
up at our temporary home, I felt rather pleased. 
Absolutely no trace of our presence was discern¬ 
ible. Though I was aware that perhaps not one 
vessel in two years called at the island, I have 
always had a very healthy respect for the long 
arm of coincidence. I did not wish my investiga¬ 
tions at Cock Island to become the mark of pry¬ 
ing eyes. 

It was past three o’clock and the sun very warm 
when Garth and I set out. We took with us a flask 
of cold tea apiece, some biscuits and some dates, 
and a shot-gun each. With a wave of the hand to 
Carstairs, our guns slung across our backs, we 


122 


ISLAND GOLD 


plunged into the tangle of steep woods growing 
down to the shore. 

The climate of the island seemed to be temperate 
enough. The air was a little steamy, but mild, 
and at first there was a pleasant breeze off the sea 
to cool us. To be equipped for the rocky nature of 
the island both of us had brought stout hob-nailed 
boots, and we praised our circumspection when we 
realized that only by boulder-climbing should we 
gain access to the higher parts of the island. 

The climbing was arduous (for neither of us 
was in form), but not too difficult. I kept a sharp 
lookout for any traces of former visitors. Once I 
found some sheep droppings and again a large 
bleached bone which looked as if it might have 
come from a sheep. But of man there was no 
trace. 

The scrub soon gave place to forest and for a 
good half-hour we toiled up the jungle-clad slopes. 
Great trees formed an almost impenetrable roof 
over our heads through which the sunshine fell but 
sparsely. We went forward in a dim and myster¬ 
ious twilight with no sound in our ears but the 
swift rushing of the stream which gave us our 
direction, our laboured breathing, and the rattle of 
our nailed boots on the boulders. It was an eerie 
place which somehow filled me With misgivings. 

Suddenly Garth, who was leading, gave a shout. 
He stood on the flat top of a rock a dozen feet above 


THE GRAVE IN THE CLEARING 123 


my head and pointed excitedly in front of him. 
I scrambled to his side. 

We were looking down into a deep circular 
depression shaped like a basin. It reminded me of 
a quarry, but I imagine it was in reality the crater 
of some small extinct volcano. What had brought 
the shout to Garth’s lips was the sight of a ruined 
hut which thrust its broken roof from out a tangle 
of gigantic ferns. 

So breathless were we with our climb that we 
were past speech. In silence we slithered and 
scrambled down into the hollow, the long tendrils 
of the plants twisting themselves round our legs 
and the thorns catching in our coats. 

It was a rude timber shack with a door and a 
window, the interior choked roof-high with growing 
ferns. The timber flooring had rotted away, and 
through the mouldering planks the jungle had 
thrust its shoots profusely as though to claim its 
own. But in one corner, where a roughly carpen¬ 
tered bedstead of timber stood, some attempt had 
apparently been made to thin out the ferns for a 
space. On the bed there lay a rotting blanket; on 
the floor close by some empty canned beef tins red 
with rust. The blanket practically fell to pieces at 
the touch. It was not marked, and, though we 
groped pretty thoroughly among the ferns, that 
was all we found in the hut. 

“There’s nothing here,” I said at last. “Let’s 


124 ISLAND GOLD 

have a look round outside. I am wonder- 

• 9 ? 

mg . . . 

The words died away on my lips. I had reached 
the hut door, my face turned towards the farther 
edge of the crater, the opposite side from that by 
which we had descended. A hundred and fifty 
yards from where I stood a large timber cross was 
planted in the ground. Between it and the hut lay 
a great isolated boulder which had probably con¬ 
cealed the cross from our view when we had 
climbed down into the hollow. 

For a moment I could hardly speak. I have seen 
the proud loneliness of Cecil Rhodes’s resting- 
place in the Matoppos; I have stood (like every¬ 
body else) in the amber light that bathes 
Napoleon’s tomb “on the banks of the Seine amid 
this people I have loved so well.” But I have 
never seen a sight more impressive than that soli¬ 
tary grave on that desert island set down beneath 
the little round canopy of blue sky which seemed 
to be borne by the lofty frowning cliffs towering 
all about. Beneath that plain wooden cross, I told 
myself, in a silence unbroken by man lies the 
Unknown. It was a mighty impressive thought. 

A rudimentary path, still to be discerned 
through the all-pervading undergrowth, led, round 
the boulder of which I have spoken, to the cross. 
The grave lay out in the open in a little patch which 
had been cleared of ferns. As we came up to it, I 


THE GRAVE IN THE CLEARING 125 


noted, with an odd little trick of the memory, that 
the grey and weather-beaten surface of the cross 
was highly polished, even as the beach-comber had 
described, by the action of the sand grains blown 
by the wind from the seashore. 

Fashioned out of two baulks of timber wired to¬ 
gether and solidly implanted in the ground, the 
cross stood at the head of a long low hillock of 
earth. On the grave lay face upward a small 
round mirror and, a little beyond it, an empty 
bottle, uncorked, which had fallen on its side. 

“You see,” I remarked to Garth, “it’s just as 
Adams said!” 

I stooped to pick up the mirror. Then to my 
surprise I saw that it was wired to a timber cross¬ 
piece which ran out from the cross as a support. 
It was a little glass set in a metal frame. 

“It looks like a shaving-glass!” said Garth. 

I did not undeceive him. I am not a secretive 
person by nature, but by training. The very char¬ 
acter of Intelligence work — the careful sifting of 
every apparently insignificant scrap of evidence, 
the lengthy process of surmise and deduction — 
tends to make one discreet even when dealing with 
one’s familiars until a plain statement of fact can 
be drawn up. So I did not enlighten my host to 
the fact that, the moment I saw that the glass was 
attached to the cross, my brain leaped at the first 
clear clue to the Unknown’s baffling cipher. 


126 


ISLAND GOLD 


For the sight of the mirror, loosely wired so that 
it faced the foot of the grave, immediately brought 
into my mind the first line of that bewildering 
doggerel: 

“Flimmer, flimmer, viel.” 

The reference to flashing surely indicated that 
the mirror was to be used as a heliograph. The 
next line — that about “the garrison of Kiel” — 
still utterly floored me; but, I reflected, since we 
had a heliograph, the following lines which I sur¬ 
mised to give a compass bearing of twenty-seven 
degrees (“The Feast of Orders” i.e., Jan. 27) 
might well furnish the direction in which — for 
reasons still unknown to me — the sun’s rays were 
to be flashed. The wiring of the mirror to the tim¬ 
ber indicated the direction in which the bearing was 
to be taken. It looked to me as though the Un¬ 
known had set up his own cross and wired the 
mirror to it before he died. 

I opened the little leathern case which hung at my 
belt and drew out my prismatic compass, trusty 
friend of my campaigning days in France. The 
grave faced practically due north. I laid the com¬ 
pass on the mirror and took a bearing of twenty- 
seven degrees. The white arrow on the floating 
centre of the compass swung round. The mark of 
the twenty-seventh degree pointed towards a 
gaunt and barren pile of rock on the far side of 


THE GRAVE IN THE CLEARING 127 


the crater. I took as my line of direction a tall 
bush aflame with some gorgeous flower on the edge 
of the clearing. 

Some cautious instinct made me detach the 
mirror. Holes had been bored on either side of the 
frame through which strands of copper wire were 
passed and knotted to holes bored in the timber 
cross-piece. I removed wire and all and slipped 
the mirror into my pocket. Garth did not notice 
the action, for he was busy pottering about the 
clearing. From the luxuriant undergrowth he ulti¬ 
mately collected a cigar-box which, I make no 
doubt, was the identical one from which the man 
Dutchy had established the fact that Black Pablo 
and his friends had visited the island. It was 
curious to find everything in the same state as it 
had been left more than a year ago. I felt rather 
as a man must feel who violates a grave. 

“There’s a path beyond,” Garth said, pointing 
over to the left. “It leads to the spring. I found 
an old bucket on the bank. But otherwise there’s no 
sign of our unknown friend here. In fact the whole 
place looks as if it had been undisturbed since the 
Flood! Whew! but it’s hot! Okewood, I believe 
we’re going to have a storm!” 

The air was indeed strangely oppressive. The 
patch of sky which thatched the clearing was now 
flecked with daubs of white cloud and there was a 
curiously menacing stillness in the atmosphere. 


128 


ISLAND GOLD 


On trees and bushes the leaves hung motionless 
without even a tremor. We sat down to cool off 
a bit. 

“It doesn’t look too good to me,” I answered. 
“Garth, I shouldn’t wonder if we were in for a 
soaking to-night!” 

Sir Alexander Garth, Bart., who had never slept 
out in the rain in his life, smiled in rather superior 
fashion. 

“I shouldn’t wonder,” he returned. “As a 
matter of fact, I rather like roughing it. It’s a 
devilish healthy life, my boy! What’s the next 
move? Has the grave given you any ideas for the 
location of the treasure?” 

I pointed at the scarlet bush. 

“Do you see that plant with the red flowers?” 
said I. “I have a fancy to take a stroll in that 
direction and see how far we can get up the cliff.” 

Garth struck his palm with his clenched fist. 

“Okewood!” he exclaimed, “By Jove! I believe 
you’re on to something!” 

“I am!” I answered rashly and cursed myself 
for a blabbing fool. For Garth, his curiosity afire, 
forthwith plied me with questions. 

“Don’t press me just yet!” I countered. “I’m 
still groping in the dark. You shall know all in 
good time!” 

But he would not be pacified. Two heads were 
better than one, he urged, and very often a clear- 


THE GRAVE IN THE CLEARING 129 


sighted, shrewd man of business could see a deal 
farther than an expert. 

“Well,” I said, “for all that, I think I’ll keep my 
own counsel until we’ve looked round a bit more!” 

At that Garth became huffy. We were partners 
in this venture, he reminded me, and we must have 
no secrets. He did not think he should have to 
recall that fact to my mind. 

The stifling heat and the fatigue of our long 
climb had made us both a bit cross, I suppose. At 
any rate, I was pretty short with him. 

“My dear fellow,” I said, and rose to my feet by 
way of putting an end to the conversation, “all in 
good time. In this sort of work one must work 
alone, at any rate, in the initial stages. Give me a 
little breathing space!” 

Garth followed my example and stood up. 

“Shall we go on?” he asked. 

He spoke without heat, but there was a look in 
his face which reminded me that, at our first 
meeting, I had noticed signs of temper about his 
nose and mouth. Garth was a man who obviously 
did not like to be thwarted. Now I thought I knew 
where Marjorie got her proud temper. 

A little puff of hot wind came whirling into the 
hollow. The trees swayed to it as it rustled through 
the leaves with a melancholy sound. 

“We don’t want to go too far,” remarked Garth, 
cocking an eye at the sky, “or we shall have this 


130 


ISLAND GOLD 


storm on us before we can get under cover at the 
camp.” 

At the first blush the cliff on the far side of the 
hollow looked perfectly inaccessible. But handy 
to my bush with the red flowers a succession of flat 
boulders, like a giant’s staircase, enabled us to 
scramble up until we found ourselves on a plateau 
of rock dominated on one side by an immense crag 
which towered above our heads in a succession of 
shelving ledges. In front of us the ground dropped 
to a steep nullah from which rose a sheer wall of 
rock and barred the way. 

It was a desolate scene. Neither tree nor shrub 
nor anything green grew in this barren landscape 
of grey and friable volcanic rock. The bare and 
frowning heights oppressed me. I turned to Garth. 

“This looks like the end of things,” said I, “un¬ 
less we can find a way up by these terraces. What 
do you say? Shall we have a try?” 

“If we could manage to reach that first shelf,” 
my companion answered, “we could, at any rate, 
get a view. There’s nothing to be seen from here.” 

I had to give Garth a back to do it, and his six¬ 
teen stone, I feel convinced, punched a pretty 
pattern of his hobnails into my skin. However, at 
the cost of my back and sundry abrasions of his 
hands and knees, Garth at last gained a footing on 
the sheer face of the rock, and then, giving me a 
hand, swung me up beside him. After a vertigi- 


THE GRAVE IN THE CLEARING 131 


nous climb which at one time brought us on to a 
ledge from which we looked down a hundred feet 
into the nullah below, we struck something like a 
steep track which eventually landed us on the 
first terrace. 

The view was disappointing. We were still too 
low to clear the frowning cliffs encircling the nul¬ 
lah and we looked forth on the same gloomy pros¬ 
pect of grey volcanic peaks we had seen from 
below. The shelf on which we stood was only about 
thirty feet wide and ran for a distance of sixty 
yards across the face of the cliff and then stopped 
abruptly. It had obviously been cut by the hand 
of man out of the friable rock, for a number of 
caves scooped out of the back wall showed that 
cave-dwellers must have lived here in that remote 
period when the island had been inhabited. The 
ledge was in fact nothing but a street for com¬ 
munication between the different cave-houses. The 
caves were low-roofed and empty. By craning our 
necks upwards, we saw that the whole face of the 
cliff was thus honeycombed with cave-dwellings in 
a succession of terraces. At the far end the steep 
track by which we had gained access to the first 
terrace wound its way upward to the higher levels. 
There were three terraces in all. 

We rested for a while on our rocky shelf and ate 
some biscuits and chocolate. From our post of van¬ 
tage we looked down on the grave in the clearing. 


132 


ISLAND GOLD 


The sun had gone in, but it was still oppressively 
sultry. The sky had assumed a forbidding leaden 
tinge. It looked like some great furnace door 
radiating a fierce heat from the fire within. 

Whilst we ate our frugal lunch we discussed our 
plans. We decided that, in view of the weather, we 
would break off our exploration for the day, return 
to camp, and get comfortably installed, and make 
an early start the next morning in order to visit the 
upper ledges of the rock. Garth had apparently 
quite recovered his equanimity after our little 
breeze. 

The descent from the rock was a thrilling busi¬ 
ness. In places the track had crumbled away, and 
more than once we found ourselves, held only by 
the nails in our boots, on a slippery slope overhang¬ 
ing a sheer deep drop. I have a poor head for 
heights, and to me it was a nightmare experience. 
The result was that our progress was slow and it 
took us a full hour to make the descent. By the 
time we reached the rocky plateau, the wind was 
whirling the grey volcanic dust in great pillars 
about our heads. The sky had grown perceptibly 
darker with an eerie yellow glow and a few big 
drops of rain plashed down on the bushes. With 
startling suddenness a long-drawn-out rumble of 
thunder awakened a thousand echoes as it rever¬ 
berated among the lonely island peaks. 

k4 By George,” said Garth, turning up his coat 


THE GRAVE IN THE CLEARING 133 


collar, “we’re going to catch it, Okewood. We’ll 
have to steer clear of these trees!” 

“We’d better make a bolt for the hollow,” I 
counselled. “The hut is out in the open. If it 
stands the wind, it will give us some shelter!” 

We started to run while the light perceptibly 
diminished, like a lighting effect on the stage. We 
were actually crossing the hollow when the storm 
broke. There was a blinding glare of lightning, a 
deafening peal of thunder, and the light went out, 
while, with a whooshing and rushing and crash¬ 
ing, the rain suddenly descended in what seemed 
to be a dense sheet of water. 

“The hut!” I shouted in Garth’s ear. 

Well it was that we were just upon it or in that 
inky darkness we should never have found it. 
Over the wooden bedstead in the corner the roof 
was whole and solid, and it kept the worst part 
of the rain off us, though we were splashed by 
the cataract of water which poured off the roof 
into the centre of the hut. The air was so highly 
charged that one could almost smell the elec¬ 
tricity in the atmosphere as the lightning rent the 
sky in blinding flashes which illuminated the 
whole clearing and the trees and cliffs all round 
with the brightness of daylight. 

The storm was at its height; the thunder was 
echoing in and out of the rocky hollows of the 
island, and in the moments of stillness the 


134 


ISLAND GOLD 


gurgling and splashing of the rain filled our ears. 
Then came a blinding lightning flash, brighter and 
more enduring than the rest. It lit up the whole 
clearing, and revealed the cross over the grave of 
the Unknown standing out hard and black against 
a fantastic background of bending, straining tree- 
trunks with branches and leaves blown out in the 
wind. And by its light, before the brightness 
died, I saw the figure of a man standing with 
bowed head at the grave. 


CHAPTER XI 


A VOICE IN THE FOREST 

I saw him only for the fraction of a second, a 
young man, tall and slim and very blond, in a 
shirt open at the neck and riding-breeches, his 
head bared to the storm. The water streamed off 
his face and clothing; but he stood perfectly still 
in an attitude of reverence. In that wild setting 
of tempest-swept rocks the apparition seemed like 
some spectre of the Brocken. Or one might have 
thought that the storm had summoned forth the 
Unknown himself from his grave. 

The vision fairly staggered me; for my mind 
was imbued with the idea that the island was 
uninhabited. But my brain, keyed up by the 
events of the day, did not dwell for an instant on 
any supernatural explanation of the apparition. 
I promptly asked myself whether, after all, there 
were people living on the island or whether the 
man I had seen had, like ourselves, landed from 
some passing ship. 

But, then, without warning, there came an ear- 
shattering, metallic crash, as though a big shell 
had exploded beside us, the earth shook and a 
perfect tornado of wind and water descended 


136 


ISLAND GOLD 


upon the clearing, clawing and tearing at the hut 
until it seemed as though the beams of the flimsy 
structure to which we desperately clung would be 
wrenched from our grasp. The inky-black sky 
appeared to split across in a jagged band of light 
which again showed up the clearing as bright as 
day. But now the tall wooden cross stood aloft 
in solitary majesty once more. The figure at 
the graveside had vanished and the clearing was 
entirely deserted. I asked myself whether the 
apparition had not, after all, been the figment of 
my imagination. Garth had seemingly remarked 
nothing, so I resolved to say nothing about it 
unless he should ask me. 

But now, amid the grumbling and rumbling of 
the thunder, receding into the distance, the storm 
was passing. The air reeked with the stench of 
sulphur, and I guessed that the appalling crash 
we had heard had marked the fall of a thunder¬ 
bolt. Slowly the light was coming back, and, 
though the rain yet descended in torrents, the 
downpour was much less heavy. 

We were in a sorry plight, the pair of us. Our 
thin garments clung to us like wet swimming-suits 
and our teeth chattered in our heads. 

“We appear to have timed things very badly,” 
grumbled Garth, wringing the water out of a cor¬ 
ner of his tussore jacket. “We had plenty of 
warning of this storm. I should have thought 


A VOICE IN THE FOREST 137 


we might have managed to get back to the camp 
in time to escape it . . .” 

I wiped the water out of my eyes and grinned. 

“Oh,” I said lightly, “a ducking won’t hurt us! 
Look, the rain’s stopping already ...” 

“I’m not complaining about getting wet,” ob¬ 
served Garth, with an air of dignity which w'ent 
ill with his bedraggled appearance — he was 
squatting on his hunkers squeezing out his hat — 
“I can, I believe, put up with the hardships of 
an expedition like this as well as any man. But 
I do think the — er — staff work this afternoon 
leaves something to be desired. To be wet to the 
skin an hour’s tramp from camp may amuse you, 
Major Okewood, but the prospect of a heavy chill 
does not strike me as being funny in the least!” 

In high dudgeon he placed upon his head the 
shapeless mass of soggy felt which had once been 
a hat. 

“I vote we make a move for the camp,” he 
proposed. “That is, if anything is left of it. I 
should not be in the least surprised to find the 
cave under water, our stores ruined, and Carstairs 
drowned — or struck by lightning, as like as not. 
I don’t wish to seem inquisitive, Major Okewood, 
but might I enquire what progress this afternoon’s 
unfortunate jaunt has brought to your investiga¬ 
tions?” 

I was rather nettled by the line he was taking 





138 ISLAND GOLD 

and the way he manhandled my name irritated 
me. 

“You needn’t worry,” I retorted curtly. “I’m 
perfectly satisfied so far!” 

“Indeed,” replied the baronet — he was strug¬ 
gling to free himself from a giant creeper which 
had firmly fixed itself about his sodden clothes. 
“I’m sorry I cannot share your optimism. But 
then I’m wholly in the dark — maybe, it’s just 
as well — about this infernal wild-goose chase. 
Damn it,” he cried suddenly, “can’t you lend me 
a hand to get this blasted root oif my legs?” 

I hastened to release him, fuming and fretful. 

“We shall be home in no time,” I said sooth¬ 
ingly to humour him, for he was like a spoilt 
child, “and you’ll see what marvels Garstairs has 
accomplished in the way of making us comfort¬ 
able. And you needn’t worry about the cave. 
It’s splendidly sheltered. Not a drop of water 
will get in!” 

Night was falling by the time we emerged from 
the steamy atmosphere of the sopping woods and 
made for the faint glow of light which shone from 
our cave. Carstairs met us at the entrance. He 
had fully justified my prophecy to Garth. 

Our beds were made up, one on either side of 
the cave, and our washing and shaving kits laid 
out on toilet tables improvised out of boxes neatly 
covered with clean white paper. 



A VOICE IN THE FOREST 139 


Hot water smoked in our wash-basins and a 
dry change of clothing was laid out on the beds. 
In the centre of the cave, on packing cases covered 
by a white damask cloth, the table was set for 
dinner. A hurricane lamp, placed in the centre, 
was flanked by enamel cups from the picnic-basket 
filled with bright flowers, and on the ground a 
bottle of Garth’s excellent champagne was cooling 
in a bucket of spring-water. 

We lost no time in changing, and within a 
quarter of an hour were sitting down to what was, 
in the circumstances, an extraordinarily well- 
cooked meal. Garth’s ill-temper melted per¬ 
ceptibly, and it was with the utmost cordiality 
that he raised his glass and pledged the success of 
the expedition. The ingenuity of the incompar¬ 
able Carstairs had so completely reproduced the 
atmosphere of civilization that it was difficult to 
believe that we three were dining on a lonely 
islet in the middle of the Pacific. 

After dinner, Garth yawned expansively and 
opined that he would turn in. The unwonted 
exercise of the afternoon, he declared, had fagged 
him out. But I had no mind for bed. My brain, 
stimulated by the unaccustomed environment, was 
active. The apparition at the graveside during 
the storm had profoundly disquieted me and I 
wanted to think. So I strolled outside for a soli¬ 
tary pipe beneath the stars. 


140 


ISLAND GOLD 


On the shore I found Carstairs, pipe in mouth, 
contemplating the sea. I love the old-time Regu¬ 
lar, such as was Carstairs, with his twelve years’ 
service in the sappers, his loyalty, his quiet effi¬ 
ciency, his eminent common sense. And as 
between two professional soldiers a bond of silent 
sympathy had established itself between Carstairs 
and me. We had not even discussed the incident 
of the drink I had given him that night on board 
the yacht. Having ascertained that Carstairs was 
practically a total abstainer, I gave Mackay a hint 
to forget all about his nocturnal diagnosis. I had 
my own theory about that drink and perhaps 
Carstairs had his; — anyway, we did not discuss 
it. 

“Grand night, sir!” said Carstairs, taking his 
pipe out of his mouth as I approached over the 
sand. 

“Wonderful!” I commented. “Good spot this, 
Carstairs!” 

The man did not reply. He was sucking on his 
pipe which did not seem to be drawing well. 

“It’s an uncanny kind o’ place, as you might 
say, sir!” he remarked presently. 

“Well,” I observed, “it’s a bit lonesome, I 
suppose. But all desert islands are that!” 

“Lonesome?” retorted the man. “I wouldn’t 
have nothing to say agin it if it were lonesome . 
I’m partial to the moors and such-like places 


A VOICE IN THE FOREST 141 


meself. I never was a one for the towns, sir. But 
I don’t like all these tall rocks and all these quiet 
trees at the back of one. They give me the fair 
’ump!” 

I laughed. 

“You want the desert, Carstairs,” I said. 
“Nothing but sand, and then some. No trees look¬ 
ing at you there!” 

“It ain’t altogether the trees and the cliffs!” 

The man paused and scratched his head with 
the stem of his pipe. 

“There’s something sort of creepy about this 
place, sir!” 

“How do you mean?” 

“Well,” he said slowly, “it’s a funny thing, but 
all the blessed evening I’ve had a kind o’ feeling 
as I was being watched. You know how it was 
in the war, sir — w’en you was workin’ out in No 
Man’s Land on a pitch-black night, scared to death 
you was walkin’ into Fritz’s line, tellin’ yerself 
all through, ‘If you can’t see him, he can’t see 
you,’ but feelin’ — well, as though there was 
nothin’ but eyes starin’ at you all round!” 

He shook himself. 

“It fair gives me the creeps!” he finished. 

Now Carstairs was a plain honest-to-God Eng¬ 
lishman from the New Forest, the very incarna¬ 
tion of the soldier from the English shires whose 
sheer lack of imagination and consequent in- 


142 


ISLAND GOLD 


ability to accept defeat in any circumstances clear 
broke the German spirit in the war. There was 
no associating that good-humoured face, that big 
mouth and button nose, with the idle fears of an 
overheated imagination. There are some people 
— I am one — who, even though they see nothing, 
have the faculty of detecting the presence of 
human beings in their vicinity. I recalled the 
eerie sensation I myself had had on landing, but, 
of course, above all I thought of that bowed figure 
which the lightning had shown me standing by the 
grave in the clearing. 

I was filled with the deepest forebodings. If 
there were people on the island, surely they must 
have remarked the arrival of the Naomi . Would 
they not have announced themselves to us? What 
object could they have, supposing Carstairs were 
not mistaken, in slinking round the camp? 

Well, it was no part of my plans as yet to 
communicate my fears to Carstairs. So I rallied 
him gently. But Carstairs stuck to his guns. 

“It come over me so strong w’en you and the 
Guv’nor was away this evening,” Carstairs said, 
“that no less than four times I left my cook-pots 
to have a look round ...” 

“Well, and did you see anybody?” 

“Not a blessed soul!” 

“Did you hear anything?” 

“No, sir!” 


A VOICE IN THE FOREST 143 


Yet the man was not to be shaken. 

“W’en I was serving dinner jes’ now,” he per¬ 
sisted, “I was as sure as sure there was a chap 
watching me from just about there” — he turned 
and indicated the black shape of a palm on the 
fringe of the shore — “not doin’ anything but jes’ 
settin’ there, spyin’!” 

The man knocked out his pipe. 

“I’m to call you gentlemen at four, sir. If you 
don’t mind, I think I’ll get down to it!” 

This little bit of trench slang (which, being 
interpreted, means to retire for the night), uttered 
in our romantic surroundings, amused me not a 
little. 

“Good night, Carstairs!” 

“Good night, sir!” 

He plodded up the beach, his feet making no 
sound on the soft sand, a white ghostly figure 
against the dark foliage. Then he was swallowed 
up in the mystery and silence of the night. 

There was no moon, but in compensation such 
a prodigious display of stars as only the tropics can 
show, blazing and twinkling in their myriads till 
one could almost believe the heavens were in 
motion. On the open shore there was yet a kind 
of half-light, but beyond, where the woods began, 
the blackness of the night was Stygian. 

Carstairs was right. This island was an eerie 
place. The absolute stillness of the night, marred 


144 


ISLAND GOLD 


only by the mournful rhythm of the waves, 
seemed to accentuate that air of expectancy about 
it which I had already remarked. I found myself 
thinking of the island as of a stage set for the per¬ 
formance of some play. 

Here, perhaps, I reflected, the Unknown, des¬ 
tined for that nameless grave I had come to seek, 
had landed, carried ashore, maybe, by his native 
crew. I tried to picture him, with death in his 
face, painfully scrawling the message which had 
so strangely come into my hands. What manner 
of man was this Unknown? A German officer, 
a naval officer probably (as the reference to Kiel 
seemed to indicate). And for whom did he 
write? For Germans, for a German? Yet there 
were no Germans, as far as I knew, in the gang 
that had taken two men’s lives to get the message 
now reposing in my pocket. Black Pablo, Neque, 
El Cojo . . . these were Spanish names. 

El Cojo? “He who goes with a limp.” Der 
Stelze, Clubfoot, had been the nickname of that 
other cripple, the man of might in that Imperial 
Germany which sank to destruction in the fire 
and smoke of the Hindenburg Line, whose ways 
lay in dark places, whom everybody feared, but 
whom so few had ever seen. ... If he could 
rise from his grave and seek me out on the island, 
then, indeed, might my imagination, like poor 
old Carstairs’, people these darkling woods with 
hidden spies! 


A VOICE IN THE FOREST 


145 


Sunk in my thoughts I had wandered on heed¬ 
lessly, going ever deeper into the tangle of the 
forest. But now the undergrowth, growing 
thicker, barred my further progress, and I came 
to an abrupt halt with the thick tendril of some 
creeping plant wound about my body. On it 
blossomed a gaudy flower with a heavy musky 
scent. The touch of the creeper on my bare arm 
made me shrink. 

It was as dark as pitch in that jungle-like 
forest. A phrase I had read somewhere about 
“opaque blackness” flashed into my mind. I 
realized I stood an extremely good chance of 
being lost and cursed myself for a dreamy fool. 
Fortunately, I had the orientation of our camp — 
I had taken it that afternoon on the beach — and 
I knew that, by striking west, I should roughly 
hit Horseshoe Harbour where we had put ashore. 

I took out my compass and, opening the lid, 
bent over the luminous needle. I stood absolutely 
still to allow the pointer to swing to rest. Then, 
from the black depths of the forest all about me, 
a gentle droning fell upon my ear. 

I listened. No mistake was possible. It was 
undoubtedly a human voice. And it was softly 
humming, as a man might hum, quietly to him¬ 
self, to pass away the time. I listened again. 
The voice rose and fell, with now and then a 
break, but always on a muted note. Suddenly, 



146 


ISLAND GOLD 


I caught the melody, a melancholy, haunting 
refrain with a phrase, as in a folk-song, that came 
again and again. And I felt the perspiration 
break out on my brow, my heart grow cold within 
me, as I recognized the air . . . 

“Se murio , y sobre su cara 
JJn panuelito le heche . . .” 

It was the song of Black Pablo, the singer in 
the lane. 


CHAPTER XII 


I MEET AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 

I remained rooted to the spot. The droning 
chant went on. How far the singer was from me 
it was impossible to estimate; for a voice carries 
far at night — he might be anything from twenty 
to a hundred yards away. There was nothing 
to do but retire; — in that clammy, steamy dark¬ 
ness any idea of stalking a man was out of the 
question. 

All the events of the past week came tumbling 
into my brain. They had tracked me down, then, 
and I was at grips with El Cojo’s famous organi¬ 
zation. . . . But this was no time for specula¬ 
tion or surmise. I could think matters out 
afterwards; for the moment I must keep my mind 
clear and concentrate on getting out of this dense 
jungle quietly and quickly. 

Now the humming had ceased. Did it mean 
that the singer was moving forward? I strained 
my ears, but could catch no sound other than the 
rustle of the leaves as they dripped moisture. To 
move in silence through the clinging undergrowth 
was, I knew, a thing impossible. An old memory 
of capercailzie shooting in Russia came to my 


148 


ISLAND GOLD 


aid. One stalked the male bird perched on a 
tree-top as he uttered his love-call to the females 
at the foot. When he called, one moved; when 
he stopped, one halted. 

The droning recommenced. Did my ears mis¬ 
lead me? It certainly sounded nearer now. My 
compass lying flat in my left palm, I moved 
swiftly forward, heading for the west. When the 
humming ceased, I stood still, and pushed on 
again as soon as it was resumed. 

A horrid thought assailed me. Was the singer 
the spy whose unseen presence had impressed 
itself on Carstairs that evening? Had the cordon 
let me through only to draw in upon me as I 
returned? I had no weapon; for I had given 
Carstairs my revolver to clean and oil on our 
return to camp that evening after our wetting. 

The crooning chant had grown much fainter. 
I must be drawing away from it. I paused an 
instant to wipe away the sweat which was pouring 
into my eyes. Then came a sudden crash in the 
undergrowth close at hand. I steeled myself to 
the encounter, getting my back to a tree and striv¬ 
ing— but how vainly! —to pierce with my eyes 
that bewildering pall of darkness. Another heavy 
crash, a frightened squawk, and I breathed again. 
It was only one of the island pigs whose nocturnal 
rambles I had disturbed. 

And now for full five minutes I had heard the 



I MEET AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 149 

singer no more. The forest was getting lighter 
and, like blissful music, there came to my ears 
the distant surge of the sea. Presently, without 
further incident, I stepped out on the beach not 
more than twenty paces from our cave. 

A black shape rose out of the darkness at my 
feet. It was Carstairs. I put my hand over his 
mouth and drew him into the cave. The place 
reverberated with Garth’s rhythmic snoring. 

“You were quite right, Carstairs,” I whispered. 
“There is some one in the woods back there! 
Have you heard or seen anything?” 

“No, sir!” the man returned. “But I was that 
certain sure there was somebody round the place 
that I nipped in and got a pistol to sit up and 
wait for you ...” 

He showed me the automatic in his hand. 

“I don’t like the look of things at all, Car¬ 
stairs,” said I. “And that’s a fact. I’m not 
getting the wind up over a lot of shadows; but 
I don’t propose to risk having the cave rushed. 
You’ve got some bread-bags and the like, haven’t 
you? Well, get one of the shovels and start fill¬ 
ing them with sand, will you? If we can run up 
a bit of cover round the entrance to the cave, one 
man ought to be able to hold it against all comers. 
Meanwhile, I’ll wake Sir Alexander here! . . .” 

It is a little embarrassing to rouse a man up 
out of his beauty sleep and tell him you have 


150 


ISLAND GOLD 


been keeping essential facts from his knowledge. 
However, I could at least honestly claim that, until 
that moment, I had had nothing stronger than sus¬ 
picions to go upon. 

Propped up on his elbow, Garth heard my 
whole tale as I have set it down here, from the 
moment that John Bard identified Black Pablo with 
the man who had kept watch outside Adams’s hut 
down to the strange happenings in the woods that 
night. 

“Just what we are up against, Sir Alexander,” 
I concluded, “I don’t know. But we’re here for 
a specific purpose, and I feel sure that you will 
agree with me that we should not allow a band of 
filthy cut-throats to deter us from it!” 

“Certainly not, my boy, certainly not!” declared 
the baronet. “As a matter of fact, I cannot believe 
that these fellows really intend us any harm. 
After all, we’re British subjects and a little of 
Britain goes the deuce of a long way in these 
parts ...” 

“Very possibly, sir,” I replied, “but you must 
remember we do not know how strong this party 
is. Force is the ultimate sanction of the law, 
they say; but on this particular island British 
prestige is backed up by exactly three very 
imperfectly armed Britishers ...” 

“If you’ll allow me to say so,” Garth broke 
in pompously, “you go rather fast. From the 


I MEET AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 151 

accident that you overhear, on an island which 
we previously believed to be uninhabited, a 
song you heard sung (in peculiar circumstances, 
I grant you) at Rodriguez, you appear to assume 
that the men who murdered Adams have landed 
on this island. Your song may be a popular 
favourite in Rodriguez; everybody may be sing¬ 
ing it. Have you thought of that? 

“If this figure you saw at the grave and this 
man whom you heard humming in the forest belong 
to this mysterious gang, led by El What’s-his- 
name, then they must have followed us here. But 
how did they come? We have seen no steamer. If, 
on the other hand, the song incident is capable of 
some simple explanation such as I have sug¬ 
gested, your last valid link of evidence connect¬ 
ing these mysterious visitors of Cock Island 
with El Thingumybob’s gang snaps.” 

This was very ingenious. But it didn’t convince 
me. The intonation of the singer in the forest 
was identical with that of the man in the lane. 
Of that I was sure. Besides, in the back of my 
mind lurked a half-formed suspicion about 
Custrin which I had not as yet thought proper 
to communicate to the worthy cotton-spinner. 
And, as for having seen no steamer, I recollected 
that launch which had put out from Rodriguez 
after us. 

“I’ll tell you something else,” Garth continued, 


152 


ISLAND GOLD 


“that perhaps you don’t know, Major. Many 
of these Pacific islands do contain treasure; — 
phosphates. Adventurers are always roaming 
about the Pacific prospecting for guano deposits, 
and mighty shy, they are, many of ’em, of 
casual visitors. Now, you mark my words, these 
chaps who have been behaving so oddly are in 
all probability just a band of shysters from 
Rodriguez — without any concession, of course — 
dropped here by a ship to look for phosphates. 
They think we’ve come to jump their claim . . . ” 

I felt very perplexed. Garth was a hard-headed 
Lancashire business man and there seemed to 
be a good deal of horse sense in what he said. 
And yet somehow . . . 

I walked to the entrance of the cave and looked 
out. In awe-inspiring majesty the sun came roll¬ 
ing up from the east and the glistening beach was 
dyed in the hues of the morning. A few paces 
away Carstairs was shovelling sand for dear life. 
Already he had filled a dozen stout cotton bags. 

“You may be right, Sir Alexander,” I said 
at length. “I hope you are. But even if these 
gentry are concession-hunters, we have to bear 
in mind that they are a cut-throat lot. They are 
quite capable of shooting first and asking your 
name afterwards. I’m going to put up a little 
sand-bag parapet at the mouth of this cave. It 
commands a fine field of fire and will allow you 


I MEET AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 153 

or Carstairs to challenge anybody who comes 
within thirty yards. As soon as we’ve put the 
place in a proper state of defence, I’m going out 
to do a little reconnoitring on my own ...” 

“My dear fellow,” remarked Garth, sitting 
up in bed and nursing his toes, “to hear you talk 
you’d think the blessed old British Empire had 
ceased to count in the world. Foreigners can’t 
go about murdering British subjects, you know. 
They’d have the Foreign Office on them damned 
quick, send a cruiser and all that sort of thing. 
However,” he finished indulgently, “I’m quite pre¬ 
pared to hold the fort while you have a look 
round. I’m not sorry to have a lazy morning, 
for, to tell you the truth, I’m so stiff from our 
climb yesterday that I can scarcely move!” 

Rather with the air of Daddy helping his little 
boy to build sand-castles, Garth assisted me to 
erect a parapet at the mouth of the cave. There 
were not many sand-bags, but we helped out with 
some cases of tinned provisions, putting the sand¬ 
bags on top and then a layer of sand scooped 
out from the foot of our fortification. The 
screen of creeper across the entrance to the cave, 
while it obscured the view from outside, was not 
so dense as to prevent anybody within from com¬ 
manding the approach to our stronghold. 

Carstairs brought coffee and sandwiches and 
at my request fille(J my flask with brandy and 


154 


ISLAND GOLD 


brought me my automatic pistol and a couple of 
charges of ammunition. Then, turning my back 
on the sea, I once more struck out into the woods. 

My plan was to make for the grave in the 
clearing. This should be the test. If our myster¬ 
ious visitors were after the treasure, I made sure 
I should come upon them in the vicinity of the 
grave. For, as far as I knew, the grave was the 
only indication they had to guide them in their 
hunt. It was still very early, and, if I could gain 
the clearing unobserved, I would post myself at 
some convenient point, perhaps on the high 
ground beyond the grave, and await events. 

I went forward very cautiously, my pistol 
cocked in my hand. I stopped repeatedly and 
listened; but save for the hubbub of the birds 
in the trees, all was still around me. The 
burbling stream that fell from the high ground 
of the island to the beach gave me my direction. 

I had reached a narrow ravine at the end of 
which was that flat rock whence, on the previous 
evening, Garth had descried the ruined hut. On 
a slab which formed a convenient step to mount 
the boulder something white caught my eye as 
I came down the nullah. To my unbounded 
surprise it proved to be one of those cheap 
cigar-holders made of cardboard which so many 
Germans use. 

I stooped to examine it. The holder, with its 


I MEET AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 155 

quill mouthpiece, was quite clean and obviously 
brand-new. Therefore it was no relic of the 
former visitors to the island. And it had not 
been there yesterday . I had mounted by this 
very slab to stand by Garth on the flat rock and, 
if the holder had been there, I could not possibly 
have failed to see it. 

It looked as though it might have dropped out 
of a man’s pocket as he was scrambling up to the 
rock. The name of a popular firm of cigar-mer¬ 
chants, with branches all over Germany, was 
printed on it. “Loeser und Wolff, Berlin. S. W. 
Friedrich-Strasse,” I read. I knew the shop well. 
I had bought cigars there scores of times in the 
past . . . 

A sudden feeling of uneasiness, an acute sense 
of danger, came over me. To be shadowed is an 
almost everyday experience in our job and one 
develops a kind of sixth sense in detecting it. 
I had the distinct impression that somebody was 
watching me. 

My brain worked swiftly. I was in the open, 
without cover, liable to be shot with impunity 
from the edge of the ravine. To keep perfectly 
calm, to show no signs of fluster, and, above all 
things, to spot your man without his knowing that 
he has been seen, is the only safe course in 
moments like this. My grip tightened on my 
pistol as, very slowly, I began to raise my 
head . . 


156 


ISLAND GOLD 


The top of the rock above me was level with 
my eyes. As I lifted them, my gaze fell upon a 
monstrous misshapen boot, projecting awk¬ 
wardly over the edge. For the moment, I had 
no eyes for the huge figure that stood there rest¬ 
ing on the rubber-shod stick. I could only stare, 
like one transfigured, at that sinister club foot 
as a voice, a well remembered voice that for 
months had haunted me in dreams, cried out 
sharply: 

“Stay as you are and raise your hands! 
Quick! And drop that gun!” 

I glanced up, and, as I lifted my arms, my 
pistol rattled noisily on the slab below. 

Over the barrel of a great automatic clasped 
in a huge hairy hand, the Man with the Club Foot 
was looking at me. 


CHAPTER XIII 


EL COJO 

Well, I was up against it now. In vain my 
memory protested against the credibility of the 
evidence which my eyes could not repudiate. 
Grundt was dead these four years: had I not seen 
him, dimly through the blue haze of smoke 
from my brother’s automatic, sink back lifeless 
on the carpet in the billiard-room of that frontier 
Schloss? Had I not even read his obituary in 
the German newspapers? 

Yet here he stood before me again, the man 
as I had known him in the past, ruthless-looking, 
formidable, sinister, in his clumsy, ill-fitting suit 
of black. Again I noticed the immense bulk 
which, with the over-long sinewy arms, the 
bushy eyebrows, and the black-tufted cheek¬ 
bones, irresistibly suggested some fierce and 
gigantic man-ape. Beneath the right eye a red and 
angry scar, a deep indentation in the cheek-bone, 
solved at a glance the mystery which had almost 
paralyzed my brain. My brother’s aim had 
failed. That hideous cicatrice, accentuating the 
leer of the bold, menacing eyes and of the cruel 


158 


ISLAND GOLD 


mouth, told me, beyond all possibility of doubt, 
that, out of the dim, dark past, Clubfoot had 
arisen again to confront me. 

A sort of cold despair settled down upon me. 
That Clubfoot would, in his good time, shoot 
and shoot to kill I made no doubt; for we had 
been mortal enemies, and quarter did not ever 
come into Grundt’s reckoning. All kinds of odd 
scenes from my crowded life swarmed into my 
mind: dear old Francis serving in the tennis- 
court at Prince’s: a juggler on the Maidan at 
Calcutta, when I was a subaltern in India: Doha 
Luisa standing in Bard’s gardens, rolling her 
white eyeballs at me . . . 

Then Clubfoot laughed — a dry, mirthless 
chuckle. The sound was forbidding enough, 
but it braced me like a tonic. I had beaten this 
man before: I would beat him again. I dropped 
my eyes, seeking to locate my pistol. 

“Five paces back, if you please, Herr Major!* 9 
rang out a commanding voice from the rock. 
“And, to save misunderstanding, let me say that 
it would add to the decorum of the proceedings if 
you renounced any attempt to find your 
weapon ...” He spoke in German in 
accents of deadly suavity. “On the occasion of 
our last meeting, you — or was it your 
brother? — showed that your hand is the prompt 
servant of your brain, an invaluable asset (let 


EL COJO 


159 


me add in parenthesis) to the big-game hunter, 
but disconcerting in civilized society. ...” 

What a commanding presence this man had! 
Again I was conscious of it as, before his slow 
and searching gaze, I fell back as ordered. He 
seemed to fill that narrow glen. This effect 
was not produced by his bulk (which was 
considerable), but by his amazing animal 
vitality, the mental and physical vigour of some 
great beast of prey. 

Keeping me covered with his pistol, he low¬ 
ered himself to a sitting position on the rock and, 
with surprising agility in one crippled as he was, 
dropped heavily onto the slab. In a lightning 
motion he stooped and whipped up my automatic 
which, with a whirling motion of the left hand, 
he sent flying away into the bush. 

“Now, Okewood,” he remarked, “you can sit 
down! But be good enough to keep your hands 
above your head!” 

He gave me the lead by seating himself on 
the rocky slab. I followed his example and 
dropped on to the ground. 

“Would you mind?” I asked, “if I clasped my 
hands behind my head? Otherwise the position 
is fatiguing ...” 

“Not in the least,” retorted Clubfoot, baring 
his teeth in a gleam of gold, “as long as you 
remember that I shoot quickly — and straight!” 



160 


ISLAND GOLD 


He measured the distance between us with his 
eye, and then, as though in deliberate challenge, 
laid down his pistol on the rock beside him. He 
produced a cigar-case from his pocket. 

“I seem to recollect that you are a cigar 
smoker!” he began. 

“Thanks,” I retorted, remembering the holder 
I had picked up, “I don’t smoke German cigars!” 

Clubfoot chuckled amiably. 

“Nor do I!” he rejoined. “I believe you will 
find these as good as any that ever came out of 
Havana. Not long ago I was a highly respected 
member of the Club there!” 

And he tossed his case across at me, after 
selecting a cigar for himself. I let it lie. I was 
not taking favours from this man. 

Grundt raised his eyebrows and shrugged his 
shoulders. But he made no comment on my 
ungraciousness. 

“Herr Major /” he said as he bit off the end of 
his cigar, “I must once more congratulate you on 
the supreme excellence of your country’s Secret 
Service! The Intelligence system which located 
this remote island as the hiding-place, real or 
imaginary, of treasure, is remarkable! The 
resource you displayed in acquiring the docu¬ 
ment which now rests in your letter-case in your 
pocket does credit both to the service and your¬ 
self. My congratulations!” 


EL COJO 


161 


Here he paused to light his cigar from a 
pocket-lighter and, with lips pursed up, noisily 
exhaled a long puff of smoke, cocking his head 
to watch the smoke drift aloft. It was non¬ 
chalantly done. But I knew that in reality he 
was watching me. 

I felt puzzled. Obviously, he was feeling his 
way; ergo, he was not sure of his ground. And 
he had no inkling, apparently, of the aimless way 
in which I had stumbled upon this amazing 
adventure. He seemed to believe that I was en 
service commande. Well, I could put up a hit 
of bluff on that . . . 

“You will at least do us the justice,” he 
resumed, “of not withholding our admiration 
of the way in which, as the result of careful 
planning, this pleasant reunion of to-day was 
achieved. The luck was on your side that night 
at Rodriguez, Herr Major; if my orders had 
been carried out, we should have spared 
ourselves — and you — this cruise in the 
Pacific ...” 

“You mean,” I retorted, “that, if your spy 
had done his work properly, he would have cut 
my throat as well as that other poor fellow’s 
and the woman’s! ...” 

“I can honestly say,” observed Clubfoot, blink¬ 
ing his eyes benignly at me, “that I should have 
sincerely deplored sucL an eventuality ...” 



162 


ISLAND GOLD 


— he paused and smiled expansively —“at 
hands other than my own. ...” 

My brain was working rapidly. Grundt was 
apparently alone. But, knowing the man, I 
guessed he had help in the vicinity to summon 
at need. Therefore, even if I could get past 
that gun of his, a frontal attack was out of the 
question. I wondered whether, if my return to 
camp were over-long delayed, Garth or Carstairs 
would come out in search of me. At best we were 
only three. Against how many? So far I only 
knew of two others, the stranger at the graveside 
and Black Pablo. But to have brought a ship here 
from Rodriguez argued a crew. In any case we 
were hopelessly outnumbered . . . 

Curiously enough, Clubfoot himself answered 
my unspoken question. 

“Now, Okewood,” he said, leaning forward 
and looking sharply at me, “I don’t have to tell 
a man of your intuition and . . . and imagination 
that the game is up. I shall be quite frank with 
you, ja wohl. We are fourteen against you and 
your two companions. I am well acquainted with 
your movements, you see. And, to remove any 
misapprehension from your mind, let me say at 
once that I am not the only German in our 
company. 

“You are not dealing exclusively with men of 
the calibre of Black Pablo, whose minds are a con- 


EL COJO 


163 


fusion of murder and the soft allurements of love. 
You will be wise to capitulate gracefully and hand 
over that message which, incidentally, was never 
meant for you. And, perhaps, since two heads 
are better than one — and I have, as you know, 
the highest opinion of your intelligence — I might 
consider allowing you to help in working out the 
clue ...” 

Again that note of doubt! Then I realized that 
I was, after all, the only man, barring Dutchy, 
who was dead, who had spoken to Adams. Ap¬ 
parently Clubfoot believed that I might have 
information as to the hiding-place of the treasure 
additional to the indications in the message. Now 
I began to understand the meaning of his honeyed 
words, his deadly suavity. And I guessed that he 
could not afford to kill me — at least not yet. 

“Grundt,” said I, speaking with all the decision 
I could command, “if you think I’m going to 
work in with you, you’re making a big mistake. 
On the contrary, I’m going to show you what 
it means for a German, after the armistice, to 
lay hands on an Allied subject. Your knowledge 
of our Intelligence service will tell you that it 
does not leave its agents unprotected ...” 

I broke off significantly and looked at him. 
Mine were brave words enough, though, the Lord 
knows, my heart was in my boots. But bluff, I 
have often noticed, has a heartening effect upon 


164 


ISLAND GOLD 


the bluffer; and I was summoning all my strength 
to face whatever dark fate was in store for me. 
For I realized that, whether Grundt and his merry 
men found the treasure or not, either way my 
chances at long last of leaving the island alive 
were of the smallest. 

Very coolly Clubfoot flicked the ash from his 
cigar. 

“Quite, quite!” he observed carelessly. “But, 
for the time being, my friend, let us not forget 
that you have to forego that protection. An 
Englander in the hand is worth two light cruisers 
in the Pacific. You take me?” 

With his cigar stuck out at a defiant angle from 
his mouth, he planked his hairy hands palm 
downwards on his knees. 

“I’ll put the situation quite plainly before 
you!” he said. “You’re in grave danger, Oke- 
wood. I’ve a rough lot of shipmates and they’ve 
got the treasure fever in their blood. My German 
companions have no liking for their dear English 
cousins. We have some survivors of Von Spee’s 
squadron: they are absurdly prejudiced against 
you and your race. The brother of the gentleman 
who wrote that message in your pocket is with me. 
He was an officer of the Gneisenau sunk by your 
Admiral Sturdee at the Falkland Islands ...” 

There came into my mind the picture of that 


EL COJO 


165 


blond youth as I had seen him in the storm, stand¬ 
ing with bowed head at the grave. 

“. . . We have the bo’sun of the Nurnberg , 
her sister vessel, and a couple of Blaujacken from 
the Dresden who swam ashore after your Navy 
destroyed their ship off Juan Fernandez, besides 
various army veterans from France. And, my 
dear Okewood, I need scarcely tell you that, after 
the Somme and the Hindenburg Line, our brave 
‘eighty-fivers’ dislike you British even as much as 
our sailormen do. ...” 

A little tremor ran through me. My hands 
were shaking with excitement behind my head. 

I shrugged my shoulders. 

“You must let me take my hands down, Herr 
Doktor ,” I said. 

He glanced sharply at me, then picked up his 
pistol. 

“Why?” he demanded fiercely. 

“To get out my letter-case!” 

Clubfoot nodded sagely. 

“So, 50,” he murmured, and his fleshy lips 
bared his yellow teeth in a cunning smile. “You 
have taken my advice. Gut, gut!” 

But then he flashed at me a look full of sus¬ 
picion and menace. 

“No tricks!” he warned in a harsh voice of 
command. “Himmelkreuzsakr ament nochmal! If 
you play me false, you dog, I’ll blow your brains 


166 


ISLAND GOLD 


all over the ravine! Now, bring your hands 
slowly down, and remember, one suspicious ges¬ 
ture will cost you your life!” 

“Calm yourself, Herr Doktor!” I rejoined. “I 
know when Fm beaten!” 

And I made to pitch the letter-case onto the slab 
at his side. 

Ah! but he was the cautious one, was old 
Clubfoot . . . cautious with that deadly thorough¬ 
ness of the Germans that gave a fellow who fell 
into their hands in the war such a very slender 
chance. He was taking no risks. With an imperi¬ 
ous gesture he stopped me and made me take 
out the message from the case myself. 

“Now throw it on the ground in front of you 
and turn about!” 

I dropped the little flannel-encased package at 
his feet and swung round. I heard the cripple 
grunt with excitement as he stooped; I could 
picture to myself the eagerness with which he 
snatched up the message. A moment’s silence; 
then he bade me face him again. 

“I think you acted wisely,” he said with his 
slow smile. “Bah! You hadn’t a dog’s chance. 
See! ...” 

He blew three short blasts on a silver whistle 
he drew from his waistcoat pocket. Immedi¬ 
ately a little cloud of men broke out from the 
cover of the trees at his back. 


EL COJO 


167 


There were, perhaps, half a dozen of them. 
They were a villainous-looking lot, with the 
exception of a fresh-faced, clean-cut young man 
whose pink-and-white complexion and fair hair 
were in striking contrast with the swarthy fea¬ 
tures and stubbly chins of his companions. I 
knew him again for the man at the graveside. 
Another I particularly noticed was a squat, obese 
fellow with a patch over one eye, the other dull 
and malevolent. On his yellow, jaundiced face a 
mass of blue-black stubble extended from the 
cheek-bones down to the loose folds of his double 
chin, while a twisted and flattened nose, which 
looked as though a heavy hand had tweaked it, 
lent a crowning touch to a face which was, I think, 
the vilest I have ever seen. From Adams’s descrip¬ 
tion, I recognized him as Black Pablo. 

Grundt halted them with an imperious gesture. 

“Herr Major ” he remarked sleekly, “I need not 
detain you further. A word of advice to you, 
however, the counsel of a friend. Now that you 
will have the leisure to devote yourself to that 
Government survey work on which, of course, 
you came to Cock Island, I would suggest that 
you confine your activities to the shores of . . . 
let me see, what was the name? — ah, yes, of 
Horseshoe Bay. The interior of this delightful 
island, so they tell me, is most unhealthy, and 
I should be desolated were any accident to befall 
you.” 


168 


ISLAND GOLD 


He paused and meditatively fingered his heavy 
chin. 

“Noch eins! If you should be tempted by 
some slight feeling of irritation at anything I 
have said or done to contemplate reprisals or 
anything calculated to interfere with the — er — 
research work of myself and my companions, let 
me warn you that I have the means of very quickly 
bringing you . . . ” — he stopped and added 

significantly — “and your friend to your senses! 
Kinder!” 

His voice rang triumphantly as he turned to 
his companions. 

“Ich hab’s!” 

With a whoop of excitement the ragged band 
gathered about him. They had forgotten all 
about me, seemingly. I had a last glimpse of 
Grundt, holding aloft in one great hairy paw the 
little square of oil-silk. 

Dejectedly I slunk away. 


CHAPTER XIV 


“DIE FUNF-UND-ACHTZIGER” 

My back view, head sunk forward, shoulders 
humped up, gave, I believe, a convincing picture 
of utter abasement as I slowly retraced my steps 
down the ravine. But the moment I was out of 
sight of that ill-favoured group about the rock, 
I darted into the thickest part of the jungle and, 
after dragging myself painfully through the 
undergrowth for about a hundred yards, sank 
down hot and breathless. 

I did not care whether I was followed or not. 

I wanted to be alone to compose my thoughts 
to think. My brain was still reeling beneath the 
shock of my stupendous good fortune. Five 
minutes since I would scarcely have given a six¬ 
pence for my chances of life. Yet here I had 
regained my freedom of action, had lulled old 
Clubfoot, by giving him an easy victory, into 
a false sense of security and, at the same time, 
had obtained the solution of the knottiest point of 
the whole cipher message. At the thought that 
it was Grundt himself who had given me the clue 
which, till then, I had vainly sought, I leant back 
and laughed. 


170 


ISLAND GOLD 


“After the Somme and the Hindenburg Line,” 
he had said, “our brave ‘eighty-fivers’ dislike you 
British even as much as our sailormen do . . 

“Unsere braven Funf-und-Achtziger!” ... he 
had used the German phrase and in a flash brought 
back to my mind a bit of German naval slang 
which I had heard so long ago that I had for¬ 
gotten it! “ Die Funf-und-Achtziger /” What 
memories of pre-war days the phrase awakened! 
Dinner at Kiel in the ward-room of the German 
flagship, the tables ablaze with blue and gold 
uniforms sparkling with decorations — guest 
night in the mess of the Kaiser Franz Hussars at 
Stettin — and always army and navy “shop” the 
staple theme of our table talk. To the Imperial 
Navy the German Army was (slightly supercili¬ 
ously, for the rivalry between the two was in¬ 
tense) “ die Funf-und-AchtzigeF ? because the 85 th 
Infantry Regiment composed the garrison of Kiel, 
Germany’s premier war harbour. 

The garrison of Kiel! Clubfoot, like all his 
master’s entourage, was in closest touch with the 
Fleet, the Kaiser’s own creation. That scrap of 
navy slang came naturally to his lips and, in 
uttering it, he had sent with a flash the cipher 
to my mind. 

"Flimmer, flimmer, viel, 

Die Garnison von Kiel” 



“DIE FUNF-UND-ACHTZIGER” 


171 


The garrison of Kiel represented the figure 
“85.” How, then, did the cipher run en clair? 

Heliograph 

85 

Compass bearing of 27 degrees. 

Eighty-five, I realized at once, was the angle 
for the heliograph. The message, therefore, 
read: 

“Turn the heliograph at an angle of 85 degrees 
[i.e., from the horizontal, since it had been 
wired so as only to be raised or lowered] on a 
compass bearing of 27 degrees ...” 

The weight of the little mirror in my jacket 
pocket heartened me immensely. Clubfoot, I 
knew, would see the figure “85” in the allusion 
to the Kiel garrison. But the mirror was the 
starting-point for the whole cipher. And he had 
never known that a mirror was on the grave! 
The mirror, fixed in position as I had found 
it, made the first half of the message as clear as 
day. Without this essential pointer the cipher 
itself would be useless to Clubfoot. Even if his 
remarkably astute brain should divine the allu¬ 
sion to a heliograph in that first line, he would 
not have the mirror . . . 

In any case, his investigations would be de¬ 
layed. And I was playing for time. Six days 
must elapse, I reflected, before the yacht could 
return. For how many of these should I con- 


172 


ISLAND GOLD 


tinue to enjoy my liberty? For as soon as Club¬ 
foot realized that he had been fooled, I knew 
that he would once again stretch out that long 
arm of his to seize me. I should have to find a 
secure hiding-place — I thought of the high 
ground of the island, somewhere among those 
lofty volcanic peaks, in this connection — but the 
present need was for action. In the light of the 
fresh clue I had obtained, I must push on with 
my investigations at the grave itself and that with¬ 
out a moment’s delay. For the rest of the cipher, 
notably those baffling bars of music, which were 
firmly fixed in my mind — well, sufficient unto the 
day is the evil thereof! 

I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes 
past eleven. “Mittag” — noon — the message was 
dated, clearly an indication of the time at which 
the experiment with the heliograph was to be 
made. If I were to act, I must act at once. For¬ 
tunately the grave could not be far from where 
I lay. But what of Clubfoot? 

The sound of voices came as if in answer to 
my query: — of voices close at hand. Parting the 
foliage in front of me I saw a file of men wind¬ 
ing their way through the forest not twenty paces 
away. They appeared to be following some kind 
of path; for they marched steadily, one behind 
the other. 

I pressed myself flat behind my protecting bush, 



“DIE FUNF-UND-ACHTZIGER” 


173 


only my head raised to observe the men as they 
went by. Now scraps of German came to my ears. 
There was talk of some one they called “Red Itzig,” 
a Jew who was to read the cipher to them. Itzig 
was apparently ill, for there was some chaff about 
the Jew being cured as soon as he should hear that 
the treasure was within their grasp. 

Did this mean that they were going back to their 
camp? And that the coast was clear for the press¬ 
ing work I had to do? Five minutes, I calculated, 
would suffice for my purpose. 

I kept a sharp eye open for Clubfoot. Here he 
came, the eighth in the party, hobbling along in 
the rear, with set face, grim and silent. The line 
halted for a moment. The man in front of 
Clubfoot, a small, dark man, doffed his Panama to 
sponge his face. To my amazement it was Custrin 
. . . Custrin, whom I had last seen, at the side 
of Marjorie Garth, standing at the head of the 
Naomi s ladder waving us farewell as the launch 
took us ashore . . . 

Now I had the solution of something that had 
greatly puzzled me — Clubfoot’s exact knowledge 
of where I kept the cipher message, his allusion to 
my “government survey work” on Cock Island. 
Then Custrin was one of El Cojo’s spies! With a 
little shiver I thought of that hocussed drink. What 
would have been my fate that night but for the 
merciful intervention of Providence? I could 


174 


ISLAND GOLD 


make a pretty shrewd guess. They would have 
found me dead in my berth in the morning and 
Custrin gone — in one of the ship’s boats. I 
wondered vaguely what had become of the doctor 
whose papers he must have appropriated . . . 

The voices had died away now, and Clubfoot, 
the last of the line, had disappeared from my sight. 
I had counted eight in the party. All, therefore, 
seemed to have passed. Softly I began to wriggle 
myself forward . . . 

I reached the path which the party had followed. 
It was a well-marked track through the forest. 
The trees were not so dense here, and above my 
head I caught at intervals a glimpse of dazzlingly 
blue sky. The sun was very hot. 

Quietly and quickly I went down the track, 
heading for the direction from which Clubfoot and 
his men had come. I went wearily, bitterly con¬ 
scious of my defenseless state. But I met no one, 
and presently I stood on the edge of the clearing, 
the grave of the Unknown below me. 

The clearing was all a-quiver with heat; 
gorgeous-hued butterflies danced from bush to 
bush amid flaming flowers: the drone of insects 
was in the air. I skirted the edge of the basin, 
then silently dropped down to the grave. 

I took out the little mirror and gave it a good 
rub-up with my handkerchief. Then, going down 
on my knees, I laid it on the grave as I had origin- 


“DIE FUNF-UND-ACHTZIGER” 


175 


ally found it — face upwards with the holes in 
the frame aligned with the holes in the timber 
baulk beneath. With my compass I took my 
bearing of twenty-seven degrees, adjusted the mir¬ 
ror’s position to the line it gave, and then raised 
the glass on its base until it stood, as far as one 
might reckon by the eye, at an angle of eighty- 
five degrees from the horizontal. 

I looked at my watch. It marked five minutes 
to twelve. 

A gleaming speck of light flamed on the mirror’s 
polished surface as it caught the sun, danced on 
fern and bush and boulder as I raised the glass, 
and then, as I steadied it, came tremulously to rest 
on the topmost pinnacle of the terraced rock which 
Garth and I had climbed on the previous afternoon. 

From where I stood I could see the edges of the 
three shelves which had been cut out by some for¬ 
gotten generation of cave-dwellers out of the friable 
volcanic rock. The speck of light trembled on the 
crag on a level with the topmost terrace. It rested 
on a tall flat stone which stood out from the rest 
of the weather-beaten face of the rock because 
its surface was smooth while all the rest was rugged 
and serrated. Only the upper part of this pillar¬ 
like stone was visible to me; for the projecting 
edge of the terrace cut off the rest from my sight. 
As far as I could judge, the pillar must have been 
hewn out of the face of the rock on the highest 
shelf. 


176 


ISLAND GOLD 


The stone was easy to identify. I felt a little 
thrill of excitement. What should I find on scaling 
the rock? From the first terrace on which Garth 
and I had rested before the thunder-storm there 
had been, I now recalled, a little winding path lead¬ 
ing aloft. What did the cipher say? 

“Past the Sugar Loaf you see the Lorelei 
And if you want the little treasure” — 

I quoted to myself, and realized, with a pang, that 
I was still without the key of the riddle of those 
four bars of music. Well, the next thing to do 
was to climb to that topmost shelf . . . 

Suddenly Garth and Carstairs came into my 
mind. With a little twinge of conscience I became 
aware that, in the excitement of the morning’s 
events, I had completely forgotten them. I was 
sorely tempted to push on with my quest. But 
I thrust the temptation aside. My encounter with 
Clubfoot had put an entirely new complexion on 
the situation. I should have to consider seriously 
with my companions what we were going to do. 
After all, it was I who had brought Garth into this 
business. ... With a last regretful glance at that 
terraced crag where all my hopes were centred, I 
turned my back on the grave and set my face for 
the shore. When I emerged at the top of the beach, 
the first thing I saw was the Naomi 7 s launch drawn 
up on the shining white sand. 


“DIE FUNF-UND-ACHTZIGER” 


177 


Garth, followed by Carstairs, tumbled out of the 
cave at my approach. 

“Okewood,” cried the baronet, and his face was 
very grave, “what does this mean?” 

He pointed at the launch. 

“It means,” said I, “that Dr. Custrin fooled us. 
Sir Alexander. You say he presented letters of 
recommendation?” 

“Certainly. From my New York manager!” 

“Well, they were stolen. I have just seen Cus¬ 
trin in the forest. He obviously stole the yacht’s 
launch to come ashore and join his employer . . .” 

“His employer?” 

“El Cojo!” 

Then I told him about my meeting with Grundt 
and of the previous history of the man, of Custrin’s 
attempts to get me to show him the message and of 
the opiate he had put in my drink. Garth listened 
without interruption, but his eyes began to bulge 
and his cheeks to redden in an ominous way. 

“Dang it!” he burst out at length, and the north¬ 
ern burr crept into his speech as it did when he 
got angry, “I’ll see this club-footed man and learn 
him to send his spies on to my yacht. A German, 
too! I’ll talk to him. I’ll ...” 

I observed that they were fourteen to three. 

“It will be at least six days before the Naomi 
calls for us,” I pointed out, “and for that time we 
are practically at their mercy ...” 


178 


ISLAND GOLD 


“And to think that those damned doctors 
wouldn’t let me have the wireless on the yacht!” 
exclaimed the baronet. “Wait till I get to a cable 
instrument. If I don’t have a warship here within 
a week ...” 

“We’ve got to do something now , Sir Alex¬ 
ander!” I broke in. “If Grundt realizes that he 
has been tricked before we are out of his clutches, 
all a British warship can do is to give us a military 
funeral. Do you understand me? Now I had 
thought of withdrawing our guns and stores to the 
upper part of the island and trying to find a safe 
hiding-place there until the Naomi comes back. 
But the sight of the launch has given me a better 
idea than that. By the way, where did you find 
her?” 

“About half a mile down the coast, under some 
branches she was!” said Carstairs. “I was having 
a bit of a look round and I came upon her. She’d 
had a rough time by the look of her. There was 
a lot of water in her afore I baled her out. I 
brought her round and beached her ...” 

“Is there any petrol in her?” I asked him. 

“She always carries a reserve of forty gallons,” 
Garth replied. “And that’s intact. And her tank’s 
half full!” 

“Then,” said I, broaching my idea, “why 
shouldn’t you and Carstairs take her and fetch 
the Naomi back? Alcedo is only a matter of a 


“DIE FUNF-UND-ACHTZIGER” 


179 


hundred miles or so. You could be back here with 
the yacht to-morrow or the next day. You’ve got 
the chart, haven’t you?” 

“Aye,” rejoined Garth slowly, “I’ve got the 
chart and a compass. But we’re not leaving you 
here?” 

“Yes,” I said, “you are.” 

“With luck,” I told him, “I may have twenty- 
four hours — not more — in which to work undis¬ 
turbed on the clearing-up of the cipher. I have 
no right to throw this chance away. If I were to 
go with you and to find, on our return, that Club¬ 
foot and his gang had stolen a march on us and 
found the treasure, I should never forgive myself. 
. . . And there’s another thing! I’ve brought 
you into this mess, Garth, and, believe me, I take 
it very kindly of you that you have never once 
reproached me, as was your right, with my respon¬ 
sibility in the matter. Knowing that you are out 
of the island, I shall have my mind easy on that 
score. Besides, I shall be able to reckon on 
your being back within forty-eight hours and can 
lay plans accordingly!” 

I had a lot of trouble to overcome his resistance; 
for he was a stout-hearted fellow. But my mind 
was made up. All my life I have played a lone 
hand, and I knew that I should face the future 
with greater confidence by myself. In the end 
I had my way and the three of us immediately 


180 ISLAND GOLD 

set about filling up the launch with stores and 
water. 

In half an hour all was ready. We pushed the 
launch down into the water and shook hands all 
round. 

“If I don’t show up when you land,” was my 
parting injunction to Garth, “occupy the beach 
here and wait for me. I shall always have the 
cave to come back to. And fire a gun, when you 
sight the island, to let me know you’re here!” 

With that Carstairs started the engine and, 
churning up the green water, the launch glided 
out into the harbour. I did not wait to see her 
fade out of sight in the spray of the surf-bar, 
for I had not a moment to lose. I made at once 
for the cave to collect a few provisions for my 
change of camp. 

• •••••• 

I had filled a knapsack and was strapping it 
when a sudden sound brought me hastily to the 
mouth of the cave. The launch had disappeared 
and the bay lay deserted before me. 

Somewhere in the woods behind me I had heard 


a woman scream. 


CHAPTER XV 


MARJORIE’S ADVENTURE 

It was the high-pitched cry of a woman in terror. 
It rang out sharply over the ominous silence rest¬ 
ing on that quiet island. And it was not far away. 
Clapping my hand to my pocket to make sure 
I had the automatic pistol which Carstairs had 
pressed upon me before he left, I dropped the 
knapsack and darted from the cave. 

I had no clear purpose in my mind, I think. Did 
not Edmund Burke tell us that the age of chivalry 
is dead? But half the battle in this curious work 
of ours is knowing what the other fellow is up to, 
and I have never been able to sit down quietly 
under uncertainty. 

Swiftly I mounted the rocky slope from the 
shore. Behind me the gulls uttered their mournful 
cries as they hung above the placid sea and in 
the woods around me there was the loud chatter 
of birds. But there was no sound of human voice. 

Then suddenly I came upon Marjorie Garth in 
a little open space between two moss-grown boul¬ 
ders. Though I could hardly believe my own 
eyes, there was no mistake about it; for her face 


182 


ISLAND GOLD 


was turned towards me. And she was struggling 
in the arms of Custrin. Her face was very pale, 
and in her grey eyes was a look of despair which 
I shall not easily forget. She was wearing no hat 
and her gold-brown hair tossed to and fro as with 
one hand thrust in her opponent’s face, she fought 
desperately to keep him off. 

It all happened in a flash. The next thing I 
knew, I felt the bite of my knuckles in Custrin’s 
damp neck as, my hand firmly clutching his collar, 
I tore him backwards. All my resentment against 
this false, sleek, smooth-spoken creature welled up 
within me, and I exulted to feel him stagger and 
wilt, then crumple up in a grasp which I willed to 
be as violent and brutal as mind and muscle could 
make it. 

Caught unawares he reeled backwards inert, for 
a fraction of a second, a dead weight in my hold. 
But then he reacted. I felt his wiry frame stiffen 
as he struggled to elude me. But I held fast and 
swinging him round, gave him my fist in the face. 

It was the force of my own blow that sent 
him from my hands — staggering against a rock 
which brought him up standing. A single word he 
spoke. 

“Herr!” he cried and the word burst in a kind 
of sob from his throat. In the crisis his native 
tongue came to his lips, and in that moment I 
knew Dr. Custrin for a Gennan. 


MARJORIE’S ADVENTURE 


183 


There was murder in his quick, black eyes. His 
hands clawed for his hip-pocket, but I was at 
him at once, driving for his face again. This 
time he dodged the blow, and I felt my fist rasp 
on the rough boulder behind him. For all his 
pretty drawing-room ways, he was game enough, 
and, with outstretched hands, made at my throat. 

But I drew back swiftly and, as he came at me, 
let fly with my left to the point of the chin. He 
stopped dead, his eyes goggling and his head sag¬ 
ging on his shoulders. Then he crumpled up in 
a mass at my feet. 

I turned to Marjorie. She stood, where I had 
found her, against the other boulder, dabbing at 
her lips with her handkerchief, her breath coming 
and going in quick gasps. 

“The beast!” she said, and her voice broke. 
“The beast!” 

Then, plaintively like a little child, she cried: 

“Where is Daddy? Oh, please will you take me 
to him? ...” 

“Your father has gone to fetch the yacht,” I 
answered, and broke off in sheer perplexity. 
Where was the Naomi? The unexplained appear¬ 
ance of Marjorie on the island complicated matters 
horribly. Alone I was content to face the prospect 
of eluding Clubfoot and the vengeance he would 
surely try to wreak on me. But with a 
woman . . . ! 


184 


ISLAND GOLD 


There was nothing for it but to put into execu¬ 
tion the plan I had already formed. I must find — 
and that without an instant’s delay — a hiding- 
place and withdraw there with the girl. That must 
be my first care. The future must look after itself. 

And the cipher? My intention had been to scale 
the terraced rock to follow up the next clue. There 
were caves in which we could shelter and the top¬ 
most terrace would surely afford a view over the 
sea and enable us to sight the Naomi as soon as 
she appeared off the island. 

We would make for the terraces and lie, snugly 
hidden there, until the yacht came back. And in 
this way I might also continue to follow up the 
clue to the treasure. But we must have food and 
arms. We should have to go back to the cave on 
the shore. 

I looked at Custrin. He lay like a log. 

“Come,” I said to Marjorie, who was now look¬ 
ing at me curiously. 

I glanced down at my clothes and realized that 
my appearance must be nothing less than for¬ 
bidding — my face grimy and unshaven, my white 
drill torn and stained, and my boots all soggy with 
sea-water. 

“You look so tired ... so grave,” she said. 
“What can have happened?” 

“Let us go back to the camp,” I rejoined, “and 
I’ll tell you as we go.” 


MARJORIE’S ADVENTURE 


185 


“What . . . about him?” she asked, and 
looked at the prone form of the doctor. 

“He’ll sleep it off!” said I, “and the longer his 
slumbers last, the better I shall be pleased!” 

“But we can’t go away and leave him like this!” 
she expostulated. 

“When you have heard my story,” I rejoined, 
“you will think as I do. He’ll be all right. He’s 
stirring already. Come! let’s go back to the 
shore!” 

As we turned in the direction of the beach, I 
said: 

“But how on earth do you come to be here? 
What has happened to the Naomi?” 

A little red crept into the girl’s cheeks and she 
bit her lip. 

“I wasn’t going to be left behind. I told Cap¬ 
tain Lawless so. I insisted on joining Daddy on 
shore. There was an awful row, but” — tri¬ 
umphantly — “I had my own way in the end. It 
was really Dr. Custrin who managed it for me. He 
said he would take the responsibility of explaining 
to Daddy that I would come. And, as the Captain 
was anxious to be off, he said he would let us 
keep the launch. The Naomi went on to 
Alcedo ...” 

“But,” I said, “where have you been since 
yesterday?” 

Marjorie laughed mischievously. 


186 


ISLAND GOLD 


“Daddy will be out of his mind when I tell him,” 
she replied. “I spent the night at a prospector’s 
camp. Dr. Custrin found that he knew some of 
the men there ...” 

I stared at her in astonishment. 

“Was the leader a clubfooted man?” I asked. 

“Yes!” rejoined the girl in a bubble of laughter. 
“Such a funny old thing ... a German. There 
were lots of Germans there. It was quite extraor¬ 
dinary . . . like a dream!” 

“But,” I protested, “why didn’t you land on 
our beach? Why was it necessary to spend the 
night with these people? A girl like you, alone!” 

“Oh,” she laughed back at me, “you needn’t 
be so scandalized. I can take care of myself. I 
meant to bring my maid, Yvonne, you know, with 
me, but the silly creature lost her courage when 
it came to dropping into the launch and she 
wouldn’t come. Just as we were through the surf- 
bar we were caught in that tremendous thunder¬ 
storm and we had to run straight for the shore. We 
tied up the launch and started to walk through 
the woods. Then we came upon this party of 
prospectors. Dr. Custrin seemed very surprised 
to find them there. He said it would be impossible 
to locate your camp in the dark and we should have 
to stay the night. They were all very nice to me, 
and I had a room to myself in a sort of wooden 
hut just above the beach.” 


MARJORIE’S ADVENTURE 


187 


Mentally, I took off my hat to Custrin. Not 
only had he contrived to get ashore without 
arousing suspicions, but he had brought with him a 
most valuable hostage. Grundt had spoken of 
having the means of bringing us to our senses. 
Now I knew what he had had in mind . . . 

“When I woke up this morning,” Marjorie 
continued, “I found that everybody, including Dr. 
Custrin, had gone. A hideous-looking negro was 
left in charge. There was some man ill, too, in one 
of the huts. The negro seemed to be watching me 
all the time, and I got horribly frightened. So, 
after waiting a long time for the doctor to come 
back, I decided to start off and find Daddy and 
you for myself. The sick man called the negro 
into the hut for a moment, and I got away. Then 
I met Dr. Custrin in the woods and he tried to 
stop me. He wanted to kiss me, too ...” 

She paused and looked at me curiously. 

“You hit him very hard, didn’t you?” she 
remarked. 

“I’d have twisted his neck clean off,” I 
answered savagely, “if I’d known then what I 
know now!” 

“I thought you were going to kill him,” said 
the girl. “You must have a very bad temper, 
Major Okewood,” she added sedately. 

After what I had already gone through that 
day, it galled me to think of the two of us chatting 


188 


ISLAND GOLD 


away as inconsequently as though we were on the 
lawns at Ascot. No man, I grant you, could have 
had a more charming companion than Marjorie 
Garth, and she was as pretty as a picture in the 
plain tussore riding costume she wore with a 
rakish little brown felt hat. 

But I was in no mood for badinage. I was 
haunted by the imminent peril of our position 
and weighed down by my responsibility for the 
safety of this girl. So, bluntly, for my nerves were 
on edge and every flowering bush seemed to 
conceal an enemy, I told her how things stood. 
She listened very quietly, but when I had finished 
I noticed that her little air of raillery had gone. 

“If you only knew,” I concluded, “how bitterly 
I reproach myself for bringing you into 
this ...” 

“When you came on board the Naomi” Marjorie 
said gently, “you could not tell that you would 
be followed to the island ...” 

“That,” I replied rather forlornly, “is my only 
excuse!” 

We halted in the woods on coming in sight of 
the sea. The beach was deserted as we had left 
it, with the sea-birds wheeling ceaselessly over 
the bay and the tide lapping gently on the white 
sand. 

The light was mellowing. My watch showed 
it to be five o’clock. 


MARJORIE’S ADVENTURE 


189 


“We shall have to hurry,” I warned, “for we 
must be in our new retreat before it is dark.” 

I bade her wait there while I fetched from the 
cave the knapsack I had packed and the Winchester. 

I advanced cautiously down the shore. I won¬ 
dered what Grundt was doing.. How oppressive 
the island silence was! It unsettled me. I 
thought of the strange, unnatural hush which is 
said to precede an earthquake. 

I bent down and lifted the pall of creeper 
screening the mouth of the cave. As I entered, 
a bulky form rose up from one of the beds. There 
was no mistaking that massive figure, its slow, 
deliberate movement. I sprang back, but the 
creeper hampered my movements and, before I 
could gain the open, my shoulders were firmly 
grasped, my arms pinioned. I sought to twist 
myself free, but I could barely struggle in that 
iron grip. As I thus stood helpless, I heard Mar¬ 
jorie cry out. 


CHAPTER XVI 

BLACK PABLO MAKES HIS PREPARATIONS 


They pushed me into the cool dimness of the 
cave. An odour of unwashed humanity, which 
blended gratefully with a searching smell of garlic, 
hung about my unseen captors. 

“Herr Gott /” cried Grundt, “it’s as dark as 
pitch in this hole. Cut away this cursed 
plant, some of you, and let’s have some light!” 

The creeper fell away. The golden sunlight 
that flooded the cave showed me Clubfoot, his 
black-tufted hands folded across the crutch 
handle of his heavy stick, grim and lowering. 

Black Pablo, and a regular Hercules of a man, 
a broad-chested, yellow-bearded giant, a good type 
of the German bluejacket from the Frisian sea¬ 
board, were holding me. Grundt made a quick 
gesture of the hand. 

“Take away his gun!” he ordered. 

The fair young man I had seen at the graveside 
stepped forward. Roughly, vindictively, he ran 
his hands over me. He found Carstairs’s automatic 
in my side pocket and transferred it to his own. 

“You see these men,” said Clubfoot, bending 
his bushy eyebrows at me. “Their orders are to 


PABLO MAKES PREPARATIONS 191 


shoot to kill in the event of any attempt on your 
part to escape. And whatever your private views 
on suicide may be you will probably bear in mind 
that Miss Garth — the charming Miss Garth — 
will, in any case, be left to mourn you . . . ” 

This allusion to Marjorie frightened me. There 
was no suavity about Clubfoot now. He was in 
his blackest, most menacing mood. His face was 
positively baleful: and there was a twitching of 
his black-bristled nostrils which warned me that 
he was on the verge of a paroxysm of fury. 

“Leave me alone with him!” he commanded 
brusquely — his voice was harsh and snarling — 
“but remain outside within call!” 

I felt the blood rush back into my numbed arms 
as the men relaxed their grip and withdrew. 

Nervously Grundt’s great fist beat a little 
tattoo on his open palm. He appeared to be 
making an effort to control himself. 

“You would play a double game with me, would 
you?” he said. “No man has ever double-crossed 
me and got away with it, do you hear? My master 
may be in exile, my country fallen from greatness; 
but I am king here. Do you understand that?” 

His pale lips trembled and he stuttered as he 
strove to master his rising passion. 

“This | cipher message is useless, as well you 
know. Without the preliminary indication, it is 
unintelligible. So Itzig, who in his day was the 


192 


ISLAND GOLD 


greatest cipher expert the Russian Okhrana ever 
had, has reported to me. And you knew it, 
you . . . you ...” 

He pawed the air with his huge hand, the fingers 
outstretched. 

“They have examined the grave again. There 
are signs that something was attached to the timber- 
work. What that was the drunken Englishman 
who first visited the grave must have known. And 
he confided it to you. T know when I’m beaten, 
Herr Doktor ’ and Til give you the cipher,’ say 
you! You thought you were too clever for old 
Clubfoot, the cripple, the beaten Hun. But I’m 
master here, Herr Major , and you shall do my 
bidding! ...” 

“You are misinformed, Herr Doktor /” I said, 
trying to speak calmly. My lips were dry and my 
heart-beats thumped in my ears. But I was not 
thinking of myself. I was tormented with anxiety 
for Marjorie — Marjorie in the hands of those 
men. 

“Don’t answer hastily!” counselled Grundt, 
changing to a tone of deadly calm that struck chill 
on my heart. “Ulrich von Hagel, who wrote that 
message, left it for one who should come after 
him, who would be a naval officer like himself. 
He wrote it so that it should be unintelligible to 
the casual person into whose hands it might fall, 
yet as clear as day to one of his own caste. And 


PABLO MAKES PREPARATIONS 193 


you would tell me that the message as it stands 
is all he left behind? Nein, nein, Herr Major , 
es geht nicht! I know that you have this infor¬ 
mation” — he crashed his fist into his open 
hand — “and you are going to give it to me!” 

I shrugged my shoulders. I would not speak 
yet. Sooner or later, I knew, they would use 
Marjorie to break my silence. Then it would 
be time to speak. Till then, I must await develop¬ 
ments. After all, time was on my side. 

My gesture seemed to rekindle all Grundt’s 
rage. Slowly the colour faded out of his face, 
leaving it livid save where that hideous scar 
on the cheek-bone made an angry patch of 
red. His bushy eyebrows drew together and his 
mouth trembled. 

“So you’d still play with me, would you, you 
scum?” he shouted, his voice rising to a roar. 
“You’d pit your wits against mine, would you? 
Herr Gott , I have an account to settle with you and 
that brother of yours and, by God! I’m going to 
settle it! And you shall pay double for the pair 
of you! Do you know” — his voice dropped to 
a savage whisper — “that these German seamen of 
mine would cheerfully abandon all claim to the 
treasure for the pleasure of taking vengeance on 
you for all your country has made them suffer in 
these long years, hunted, degraded, outcast? 

“Do you realize that I have but to raise my hand 




194 


ISLAND GOLD 


and you’re a doomed man, and not the whole 
might of the British Empire could save you? 
But we shall take our time. You will not die 
too soon, my friend. First you shall speak! 
And if you remain obstinate, there is always the 
charming English girl ...” 

He clapped his hands. On a sudden the cave 
seemed filled with angry shouting men. My head 
swam, for I was worn out with want of sleep and 
faint with hunger. Something struck me on the 
back of the neck a violent blow. I felt myself 
falling, falling . . . 

• ••••••»• 

How long I remained unconscious I don’t know. 
When I regained my senses, it was to find myself 
in semi-darkness in a long, low-roofed shed. It 
was dimly lit by a ruddy light which fell through 
some kind of grating near the roof. I could see 
no windows. The atmosphere was stifling, and the 
floor and walls fairly swarmed with enormous 
cockroaches. 

They had laid me down on a pile of sail-cloth 
in a corner. My head was splitting and I had a 
raging thirst. My pockets had been rifled and my 
brandy flask was gone. I leaned back on my hard 
couch, my head against the rough wall of planks, 
and idly watched the flickering reddish light that 
filtered through the grating. I was vaguely aware 
of some unpleasant news that lurked, like a robber 


PABLO MAKES PREPARATIONS 195 


in ambush, in some unfrequented comer of my 
brain, ready to pounce out upon my first conscious 
thought. . . . 

Somewhere outside a guitar was thrumming 
random passages of Spanish dances, punctuated, 
now and then, by a little burst of castanets. The 
soft murmur of voices became audible every 
time the guitar stopped, with here a laugh and there 
an exclamation. Presently a voice called 
“Pablo”: the lilting rhythm of a dance theme 
stopped — suddenly in the middle of a bar — and 
the click of the castanets was stilled. Then, to 
soft, plaintive chords heavily stressed, an exquisite 
liquid tenor voice began to sing: 

“Se murio y sobre su cara 
Un panuelito le heche . . . 

Por que no toque la tierra 
Esa bocca que yo bese . . .” 

The chords broke off abruptly on a single string 
that sang reverberatingly. There was laughter, 
applause, the confusion of men speaking together. 
Then a voice said distinctly in German: 

“He hadn’t come round when I looked in ten 
minutes ago. Karl knows how to send them to 
sleep with that blow of his ...” 

“He’ll come out of dreamland quick enough 
when Der Stelze gives Black Pablo the word!” 
another voice replied. 


196 


ISLAND GOLD 


“0 Pablo,” cried one in Spanish, “0 Pablo! 
You shall try your little persuasions on the senor! 

“Si, si . r ’ came from many throats. 

“Madre de Dios!” answered a voice in guttural 
Spanish. “He shall speak for me, muchachos! 
And if he will not speak, then, caramba! maybe 
he’ll sing for us — and for the lovely senorita as 
well!” 

There followed a roar of acclamation. Then 
Black Pablo said: 

“Patience a little while, amigos , until the 
Chief comes. I go to make ready the 
fire! ...” 

I sprang to my feet. I heard no more of the 
talk outside, the cries, the laughter, the chaff. 
The time had come for action. I must decide at 
once between complete capitulation to Grundt or 
one last bid for liberty. 

But what guarantee had I that Grundt, with 
the heliograph in his possession, would respect 
any promise he might give me as the price of 
surrender? None. I could not trust him, and, 
as he had told me, he had an old score to pay off. 
And if anything should happen to me before the 
yacht returned, what would become of Marjorie? 
Free I might help her: therefore, any risk was 
justifiable to secure my escape. 

Escape? But how? 

The shed was solidly built of heavy logs, the 



PABLO MAKES PREPARATIONS 197 


door the only visible means of egress. The grating 
which admitted the air was a steel-bound frame, 
too narrow, as I could see at a glance, to admit the 
passage of my body. I scrutinized the floor. It 
was of planking, well-made and seemingly in good 
condition. It struck hollow to the foot, and I 
surmised that, as is generally the case with sheds 
of this kind, the structure was laid on a concrete 
foundation. 

In the course of my examination of the board¬ 
ing I moved the pile of sail-cloth. Beneath it was 
a plank in which an iron ring was sunk. The sheer 
unexpectedness of my discovery, the prospect of 
escape it opened to me, left me with brain numbed, 
irresolute. The talk and laughter had died down 
outside, but from time to time my ear caught a 
measured foot-tread as though a guard were 
walking up and down before the shed. . . . 

The plank came up easily enough. My heart 
sank within me. It revealed merely a shallow 
trough about three feet deep going down to the 
foundations of the shed which, as I had guessed, 
were set in concrete. 

I got down into the hole and crawled in under 
the floor. It was pitch-dark and abominably 
hot down there under the boards, with a strong 
smell of rats. Face downwards, my head fre¬ 
quently scraping the planks above me, I crawled 
along the concrete bed, hoping against hope that 


198 


ISLAND GOLD 


I might find some hole, where the outer wall of the 
shed rested on the concrete base, which would 
enable me to scramble through to freedom. 

But I was doomed to disappointment. Here 
and there I found a cranny big enough for the 
flat of my hand to pass. But nowhere was there 
an opening wide enough to take anything bigger 
than a cat. I could only conclude that the trap 
I had found was made for the purpose of allowing 
repairs to be effected to the lower woodwork of 
the shed. 

Half-suffocated with the heat and almost 
blinded with dust, I was painfully crawling back 
to my trap when my head hit a plank along the 
wall with more than usual violence. The beam 
seemingly rotten underneath, eaten perhaps by 
ants, splintered like touchwood, and my head 
came up through the floor. I found myself look¬ 
ing into the shed. 

Then germinated in my mind the seed of a 
great idea. The next best thing to escaping is to 
give the appearance of having escaped, a theory 
which many of our war prisoners in Germany 
turned to good account. If my captors were not 
acquainted with the construction of the shed, if, 
as I calculated, they would, from the discovery of 
a large hole in the floor, jump to the conclusion, 
without further investigation, that I had burrowed 
my way out under the floor, the guard over the 


PABLO MAKES PREPARATIONS 199 


shed would be relaxed, and I should, at any rate, 
have a little breathing-space in which to think out 
my next move. There were a lot of “ifs” about 
my plan. But it was the only one I could think 
of for the moment, and I set about putting it into 
operation at once. 

Where the rotten plank had given way, I enlarged 
the hole as much as possible. Then I climbed 
through it back into the shed, replaced the plank 
with the ring and covered it up again with the pile 
of sail-cloth, and without further delay, dived 
down again through the hole I had made under the 
floor. I crawled away among the beams and joists 
as far as I could go in the direction of the other 
side of the shed, and then lay still. 


CHAPTER XVII 
THE ESCAPE 

Good fortune, I have always contended, comes 
to those who make ready to receive it. I can well 
imagine the Foolish Virgins of the parable spend¬ 
ing the rest of their lives lamenting their hard 
fate and attributing their wise sisters’ prepared¬ 
ness, not to prevision, but to good luck. Through¬ 
out my life I have always tried to leave nothing 
to chance but the denouement . It is in the 
denouement that Fate lies in ambush, waiting to 
slay or spare. . . . 

I had done what I could, I reflected, as I lay 
up in my stuffy hole. Now Fate must take a 
hand. I had no settled plan. In course of time 
they would come to look for me, and if they did 
not drag me forth by the heels from my hiding- 
place, I should watch for the best opportunity 
that presented itself for my dash into 
liberty. . . . 

I think I may have dozed off; for I did not hear 
the shed door above me open. What brought me 
to my senses with a shock and set my nerves 
a-tingling was the stump of a heavy footstep, a 
well-remembered halting step, that made my heart 
stand still. 


THE ESCAPE 


201 


Then came the hubbub of excited voices, the 
glare of torchlight filtering through the interstices 
of the floor and the roar of Clubfoot’s voice shout¬ 
ing orders. A long beam of white light clove the 
darkness of my lair. Some one had climbed down 
into the hole. I held my breath and wondered 
whether against the white concrete on which I lay 
my drill suit might escape notice. 

Heavy feet trampled above my head: a door 
slammed violently and a whistle shrilled thrice. 
Again there came that clumping tread, shaking 
the very fabric of the hut. Then silence fell and 
I breathed again. 

Suddenly a voice spoke, almost in my ear, as 
it seemed, from outside the shed. 

“He may have tunnelled,” the speaker said 
in German. 

“If he has,” replied a voice in the same 
language, “he can’t have gone far. He hadn’t 
time!” 

The voices moved away. 

They were obviously going to make the round 
of the shed on the outside to see where I had 
escaped. They would find no opening and I 
should be caught like a rat in a trap. If I were to 
make a bolt for it, it must be now or never. I 
began to shuffle my way backwards towards the 
hole in the floor . . . 

The shed was empty and, oh, thank God, the 


202 


ISLAND GOLD 


door stood wide. Beyond it I caught a glimpse of 
an open space surrounded by half a dozen wooden 
huts, a fire burning low in the centre. I tiptoed 
to the door. 

The night was very dark. I could hear men 
crashing about on the outskirts of the camp. One 
of them carried a torch, and its red and smoky 
glare flickered over the trees and bushes. But 
the little clear space between the huts was 
deserted. Once I could get away from the light 
thrown by the fire . . . 

Now I was through the door. I could hear 
them on the far side of the shed. In three silent 
bounds I was past the fire and across the open. 
Then I was brought up short by a low building 
lying directly across my path. As I halted, non¬ 
plussed for the instant, a door facing me opened 
and a mulatto poked his head out. He recog¬ 
nized me for a stranger at once. He rolled his 
eyes at me in surprise and would have cried out. 

But I leapt at him, my fingers at his throat, and 
as he toppled over backwards across the threshold 
of the door, I tightened my grip until I felt the 
breath choking out of him. However, having got 
him down, I released my hold and ran my hands 
over his filthy clothes. 

In the hip-pocket of his striped cotton trousers 
I found a Browning and a large key. I thrilled at 
the touch of the pistol in my hand. After success- 


THE ESCAPE 


203 


fully travelling the first stage on the road to 
freedom, I had now a weapon to help me over the 
next! Surely things were coming my way! 

The mulatto, upon whose chest my knee pressed 
hard, was grey with fear. He was a picturesque- 
looking ruffian with rings in his ears and a gaudy 
bandana handkerchief bound about his brows. I 
tore off his head-dress and unceremoniously 
crammed it into his mouth. There seemed to be 
about three yards of it and it was far from clean. 
But the yellow boy gobbled it down, and by the 
time I had pushed the end of it past his thick lips, 
he appeared to he very effectively gagged. Then 
I strapped his hands together behind his back 
with his own belt and tethered his legs with an 
end of rope which I found in a corner. He made 
no attempt at resistance. 

This job satisfactorily accomplished, I rose to 
my feet and looked about me. Where was 
Marjorie? Had any harm befallen her? In my 
mind’s eye there arose the picture of her as I 
had left her standing on the fringe of the forest, 
a slim girlish figure, a little thrilled, but making 
such a brave show of calm. What had they done 
with her? In which of these squalid huts was 
she confined? 

The room in which I found myself, dimly lit 
by a single candle stuck in a bottle, was obviously 
the cook’s galley. There was a stove in one comer 


204 


ISLAND GOLD 


and remnants of food on the table. The mulatto, 
of course, would be the cook. Then there crept 
into my memory something Marjorie had said 
about a hideous negro in whose custody she had 
been left before I met her with Custrin in the 
forest. And I turned over in my hand the key 
which I had taken from the mulatto’s pocket. 

At the back of the kitchen was a door. It was 
locked, but the key fitted it. As I softly turned the 
lock and swung the door back, there was a little 
cry, a flutter of something white, and Marjorie 
stood in the pool of yellow light thrown by the 
guttering candle across the threshold. I beckoned 
to her and put my finger to my lips. 

She was very pale and her face looked as 
though she had been crying. But her splendid 
courage never failed her. She seemed to take in 
at a glance the disordered room and the yellow¬ 
skinned mulatto trussed up on the floor. 

“My dear!” she whispered softly as she came 
out and stood by my side as though awaiting 
orders. 

The galley door gaped wide as I had left it. The 
open space about the fire was still deserted; but 
I yet heard the sound of voices and the crash of 
feet in the undergrowth beyond the circle of light 
flung by the dying embers. And I noticed with 
growing anxiety that the eastern sky was growing 
light. 


THE ESCAPE 


205 


“We can’t afford to wait!” I whispered to the 
girl. “We shall have to run for it. If only we 
can make our way in the dark to the grave! I 
can find myself to rights after that ...” 

“There’s a path through the forest to the grave,” 
rejoined Marjorie. “I followed it this morning. 
I can show you where it is.” 

I made her drink a cup of rum from a wicker- 
bound jar that stood on the floor and took a dram 
myself. It was wicked stuff, raw and almost proof, 
but I felt a great deal the better for it. I also 
pocketed some cold meat and bread. Famished 
as I was, I would not stop to eat; but I meant that 
we should make a meal at the first opportunity. 

Suddenly, from somewhere quite close at hand, 
voices reached my ear. Swiftly I drew the galley 
door towards me and peeped through the crack. 
Silhouetted against the firelight, two figures were 
striding rapidly towards the hut. One of them, 
a great black shape, went with a limp. 

In a flash, without noise, I pulled the door to 
and, flattening my palm on the candle, extinguished 
it, plunging the galley in darkness. 

“We must get out by the back,” I whispered 
to Marjorie. 

“There is no way!” she replied. “There is 
not even a window in the back room!” 

“Then stay here behind the door!” I told her. 
“And, whatever happens . . . whatever hap- 


206 


ISLAND GOLD 


pens, do you understand? . . . don’t make a 
sound, but leave things to me. And when I say 
'Run’ run! ...” 

In a bound I was at the mulatto’s side and had 
dragged him by the feet into the inner room. It 
was a fetid, black hole. I felt the outline of a 
truckle bed against the farther wall. I flung the 
cook down on it and spread a blanket over him. 
I was back in the galley by Marjorie’s side just 
as a heavy footstep rang on the hard earth 
without. 

Then the hut door was violently flung open. 

“Pizarro!” called a thick voice in Spanish. 
“Pizarro! Nombre de Dios! Is the man deaf?” 

We pressed ourselves flat against the wall as 
the door swung inwards. A white gleam of light 
pierced the darkness of the room and showed up 
clearly the rough panels of the door at the other 
end. 

“Well!” said the thick voice, in German this 
time, “the door’s shut, anyway!” 

The hut shook to his heavy tread as he stumped 
in, the fair young German, the brother of the 
Unknown, at his heels. Noiselessly I slipped out 
behind them. 

They stopped suddenly. Clubfoot was at the 
door. If they turned round now, I should have 
to fight for it . . . 

“Na nul” ejaculated Grundt, without looking 


THE ESCAPE 


207 


back, “the key’s in the door. Show a light, 
Ferdinand!” 

I heard the door creak on its hinges, saw the 
flashlight pick out the vague shape beneath the 
coverlet on the bed. And then the full force of 
my error broke upon me. I had left the mulatto’s 
head exposed and, instead of Marjorie’s soft 
golden-brown hair, Ferdinand’s lamp showed us 
a coal-black woolly thatch. 

Clubfoot, half across the threshold, swung 
round to the young German who was close behind 
him. But, before he could speak, I pitched myself 
with every ounce of weight I could command at 
Ferdinand’s back and propelled him and Clubfoot 
violently into the inner room. I heard the loud 
crash as they fell in a heap on the floor and a 
smothered screech from the bed as I slammed the 
door and locked it. 

“Now,” I cried to Marjorie, “run! ...” 


CHAPTER XVIII 

A FACE AMONG THE FERNS 

In my ear rang angry shouting, the sound of heavy 
blows rained upon that inner door, as I dashed 
out of the hut. Marjorie flashed by the front of the 
sheds and took a rocky path which led off steeply 
to the left. As I tore after her, a man stepped out 
quickly from the angle of the hut to bar my pas¬ 
sage. But without faltering I drove my elbow into 
his face and he slipped backwards, striking his 
head against the split log facing of the shed with 
a horrid crack. I did not stop to see what became 
of him, but ran on, congratulating myself that I 
had laid him out without using the pistol which 
my right hand clutched in my pocket. For I knew 
that the sound of a shot would bring the whole 
horde buzzing about our ears. 

Daylight was coming now with great strides. 
The morning mists clung sluggishly about the lower 
part of the steep incline leading up from the hollow 
where the camp was situated. As we topped the 
path, we came into view of the shores of a little 
cove and glimpsed a long, grey motor-launch that 
lay at anchor. This, as Marjorie told me after¬ 
wards, was Sturt Bay, which, I remembered, the 


A FACE AMONG THE FERNS 209 


“Sailing Directions” had mentioned as the only 
practicable landing-place other than Horseshoe Bay 
on the island. In that deep hollow the sheds must 
have been invisible both from the land and the 
sea side. When, later on, Marjorie told me that 
Clubfoot’s men, in their talk among themselves, 
always referred to the huts as the “Petrol 
Store,” I thought I understood why such care had 
been taken to conceal the camp from prying eyes. 

Now we were in the forest following a winding 
track. Though, on looking back, it seemed to have 
been the height of foolhardiness, I do not think we 
could have acted otherwise. For it was essential 
that we should reach the high ground undiscovered 
before it was fully light, and we might have wasted 
hours trying to find the way through these dense 
woods where, though day was at hand, the shadows 
of the night yet lingered. 

The noises I had heard on the outskirts of the 
camp had ceased. The silence made me uneasy. 
We relaxed our pace to a walk and went along 
swiftly and softly, our feet making no sound on 
the spongy ground. Suddenly, from a clump of 
rich green ferns, not a pace away from me, a man’s 
head arose. I did not require to see the heavily 
bruised features to recognize Custrin. If ever the 
intent to kill peered out of a man’s face, it did 
from the quick, black eyes of the doctor of the 
Naomi . 


210 


ISLAND GOLD 


It happened far quicker than it takes to write 
it down. I could not see his hands: but there was 
a warning rustle of the ferns, a sudden change in 
the face, which told me he was going to shoot. The 
index finger of my right hand was crooked round 
the trigger of my pistol as it lay in the side pocket 
of my jacket . . . 

We fired together. Something “whooshed” by 
my ear. In accents of shrill surprise Custrin cried 
out, “Oh!” stared at me stupidly for the fraction 
of a second through the blue haze that drifted on 
the air between us, then pitched forward on his 
face into the clump of ferns. There was a horrid 
gush — a convulsive movement of the hands — 
and the body lay still. The woods seemed to ring 
with the report and there was a smell of singed 
cloth in the air. The pocket of my jacket was 
smouldering. . . . 

Now silence descended once more upon the 
forest, broken only by a faintly audible drip! drip! 
from that drooping head at my feet. Then sud¬ 
denly a distant hallo went echoing through the 
woods; another shout, much nearer at hand, 
answered it, and was answered by another and 
another until the whole forest rang again. 

I turned to Marjorie. White to the lips, she 
stood with face averted from that limp form sprawl¬ 
ing in the ferns. 

“We must make a dash for it, partner!” said I. 


A FACE AMONG THE FERNS 211 


Docilely, like a little child, she thrust her hand 
in mine. 

“Don’t go too fast!” she pleaded, ‘Tm . . . 
I’m . . . afraid of being left behind ...” 

Hand in hand, like the Babes in the Wood, we 
set off again through the forest, pelting headlong 
down the track. Unmolested we reached the up 
of the clearing and dropped down into the hollow 
where the grave lay bathed in the lemon-coloured 
light of the new day. In front of us towered the 
rugged mass of rock for which we were making, 
and my eye sought on the topmost terrace that 
pillar of dressed stone which held, as I firmly 
hoped, the secret of the treasure. 

Panting, we scrambled up the shelving slabs 
of stone which led to the foot of the crag. In order 
to reach the first shelf I had given Garth a back; 
but I guessed that the track I had seen winding 
aloft from the first terrace must, somehow, find its 
way to the ground. 

We followed the base of the rock round till, 
presently, we came upon a tiny, zigzag footpath, 
crumbling and precipitate, leading upwards. 

By this we were out of sight of the clearing, 
but the sounds of pursuit drifted across to us more 
plainly every minute — the noisy passage of men 
through the undergrowth, raucous shouts . . . 
They seemed to be beating the jungle, keeping in 
touch with each other by calling. 



212 


ISLAND GOLD 


The attack, when it came, would come from the 
rear. Therefore, I made Marjorie go first up the 
path. I looked at her anxiously. She was game 
all through, this girl; but her eyes were wistful 
and her mouth drooped pathetically. 

The path, winding its way across the face of 
the rock, brought us on to the first shelf and thence, 
from the far end, pursued its course aloft. As we 
stepped out on the terrace, a shout rang out from 
below and at the same moment a bullet hit the rock 
with a resounding thwack right next to my ear 
while another whined shrilly over our heads. 

“Go on, go on!” I cried to Marjorie. Together 
we dashed across the terrace and then the winding 
of the path brought us under cover again. We 
toiled on, the path growing steeper and steeper. I 
kept looking round to see if we were followed; but 
the grey path below us remained deserted. 

As we mounted higher, I noticed that the shelves 
cut out of the rock face grew narrower. The second 
terrace was scarcely more than twelve feet wide. 
Since we had left the first terrace, we had looked 
out over a stem landscape of barren rock and 
lonely crag without a vestige of green. But, 
when we were within measurable distance of the 
third and topmost terrace, the path suddenly bent 
to the left and a magnificent panorama of land and 
sea burst upon our gaze. 

Far below us the belt of green jungle was spread 


A FACE AMONG THE FERNS 213 


out at our feet; the waving green trees sloped down 
to the cliff-sheltered anchorage where the white 
wings of sea-birds flashed in the sun; a broad belt 
of deep blue sea ran out to the horizon all round. 
In the foreground our narrow path zigzagged to and 
fro, like a fluffy grey ribbon gummed to the rock. 
Just beyond we looked into the cup-shaped hollow 
with the grave. Tiny figures, every detail clear- 
cut and distinct in that limpid air, were dotted 
about the clearing. One leant heavily upon a 
stick, which, as we stood and gazed upon the view, 
he raised and pointed aloft. 

“Hurry, hurry!” I cried to Marjorie, but almost 
before I spoke a shot again rang out in the hollow 
below and the dust spurted at my feet. It was 
some thirty yards to where the path, turning once 
more, would bring us out of sight, and we 
scrambled forward with the bullets “zipping” 
angrily in the dust or noisily flattening themselves 
out on the rock. Several of the men in the clearing 
seemed to be firing, for the bullets came pretty fast. 

It was a harrowing experience to be shot at at 
that height, perched on a precipitate path like flies 
on a ceiling. I plunged forward, my heart in my 
mouth. Now Marjorie had reached the bend and, 
having rounded it into cover, had halted, waiting 
for me to draw level. A bullet struck the ground 
between us splashing the grey volcanic dust knee- 
high and the next moment I had scrambled into 


214 


ISLAND GOLD 


safety. Then I saw that the topmost terrace was 
only a few yards from us. 

I turned to the girl. She had gone very white, 
and she seemed to be leaning for support on the 
rocky wall at her side. Before I could speak she 
heaved a little sigh and pitched forward. I caught 
her in my arms. 


CHAPTER XIX 


WHICH PROVES THAT TWO HEADS ARE 
BETTER THAN ONE 

I don’t think she fainted. It was just that her 
forces had failed her. She lay quite motionless in 
my arms, her red-brown hair a splash of colour 
against the white sleeve of my coat. But a few 
yards, as I have said, separated us from the shelf, 
so I lifted her up. I felt a soft arm steal round 
my neck as she steadied herself. I glanced at 
her face. Her eyes were open. 

“Hold tight,” I bade her, “and whatever you do, 
don’t look down!” — for at that height the clear 
drop down the side of the cliff was enough to make 
an Alpine guide dizzy. Looking steadfastly ahead 
and fighting down a horrible feeling of giddiness, 
I carried the girl up the path and at length stood 
upon the ledge. 

It curved round the face of the rock, a mere 
shelf not more than two paces wide, but slanting 
inwards, which improved one’s foothold. From it 
the face of the cliff dropped sheer to the nullah 
hundreds of feet below. I ventured a peep over 
the side and my brain fairly swam; for I am no 
hand at heights. From somewhere above us a 


216 


ISLAND GOLD 


great bird suddenly went up with a vast flutter and, 
with a few strokes of its powerful wings, propelled 
itself through the air until, level with us, it hovered 
motionless at an immense height above the stony 
valley. 

“I’m going to set you down now,” I said to the 
girl. “Lie quite still and don’t move until I come 
hack. I’m going along the ledge a bit to see if it 
broadens out at all or if there’s a cave.” 

As gently as I could I put her down. The wind 
blew invigoratingly on the pinnacle of the crag 
and I hoped it would revive her. I stood and lis¬ 
tened. No sound came from below. But I knew 
that until I found a spot from which we could 
survey the ascent we should not be safe. 

I edged my way along the shelf as it curved 
round the rock. A few steps brought me in sight 
of its termination. It ended in nothing; but what 
caught my eye was the tall pillar chiselled out of 
the rock upon which the flash from my mirror 
had rested. Beside it was a low opening in the 
back wall of the cliff. 

The pillar was merely a high expanse of 
“dressed” stone, as the masons say, which had been 
carved out of the soft surface of the peak. From 
pictures I had seen of the images on Esther Island, I 
knew it to be the first state of one of those uncouth 
effigies, relics of a departed era, which are found 
in more than one island of the Southern Seas. The 


TWO HEADS BETTER THAN ONE 217 


pillar was not inscribed or carved in any way. It 
stood just as some native mason had left it, wait¬ 
ing for the sculptor’s hand. 

A touch on my shoulder; Marjorie stood at my 
side. 

“I’m a poor kind of soldier, partner,” she said, 
“to fail you at the critical moment. I was at the 
last gasp when you picked me up. How ever did 
you manage to bring me up here?” 

“Don’t ask me,” I laughed. “I was terrified for 
fear you’d look over and get scared ...” 

“I don’t mind heights,” the girl rejoined simply; 
“we live a great part of the year in our place in 
Wales, you know, and I’ve done quite a lot of 
climbing in my time. Oh! Look! Did you ever 
see anything so wonderful?” 

We were side by side on the ledge with our backs 
to the pillar, and as she spoke she stretched forth 
her hand and pointed across the valley. Above the 
jagged crests of various isolated peaks in the fore¬ 
ground a gigantic solitary image raised its tall 
black form against the deep azure of the ocean 
which was spread out to the horizon. Its back set 
to the sea, its features, stern and enigmatic in ex¬ 
pression, turned towards us, and, clearly visible in 
that transparent atmosphere, it dominated the little 
rocky plateau on which it stood, dwarfing the 
tremendous blocks of stone strewn about its base. 
Before it, as if from a sacrificial altar, a thin 


218 


ISLAND GOLD 


spiral of black smoke slowly mounted aloft against 
the blue sky. It seemed to rise from the ground 
at the foot of the effigy. 

It was, in truth, a wonderful sight, a spectacle of 
sheer majesty. That lonely Colossus with its cruel 
face seemed to embody the suggestion of sinister 
mystery which, I had felt from the first, brooded 
over Cock Island. . . . 

Marjorie gave a little shudder. 

“This island frightens me!” she said. “To think 
of that awful-looking image standing there gazing 
out across the valley for all these hundreds of years 
as if it were waiting for something. Somehow it 
reminds me of that clubfooted man, so hard, so 
ruthless, so . . . patient! Crundt makes my 
blood run cold! ...” 

He had not molested her, it appeared. When I 
had left her to enter our cave on the beach, men 
had suddenly surrounded her and carried her away 
to the sheds. There she had been handed back to 
the custody of the mulatto, who had locked her in 
the room behind the galley where I had found 
her. 

“At meal-times,” she added, “they brought me 
out to their open-air mess in the space between 
the huts. No one spoke to me. But they eyed me 
silently, especially Dr. Grundt. He always seems 
to be thinking, that man, and I’m sure his thoughts 
are wicked. And the man they call Black Pablo! 


TWO HEADS BETTER THAN ONE 219 


He kept edging towards me and leering with his one 
eye. Oh! it was horrible ...” She had seen 
nothing of Custrin since the encounter with him in 
the forest. 

Clubfoot, she told me, had had some trouble 
with his men. They were grumbling at him for 
having let me go. The Germans, especially the 
blond young officer, were particularly bitter. But 
Clubfoot had rounded on them and said that, as 
long as there were trees on the island to hang 
mutineers on, he would have no questioning of his 
authority. 

Somewhere in the green tangle of woods far 
below us a single shot rang out sharply. The report 
went reverberating down the valley and from the 
tree-tops a cloud of birds swooped up affrighted. 
I did not hear the flight of the bullet, so I could 
not see that the shot was meant for us. Yet there 
were only Clubfoot’s men on the island now. Was 
Grundt asserting his authority? 

The girl had dropped to her knees, and now 
seated herself cross-legged on the ground. 

“If you and I are partners,” said she, “don’t 
you think the time has come to take me into your 
confidence?” 

She invited me with a gesture to seat myself 
by her side. I glanced down at the valley. Below 
us and to the left the ascending path twice wound 
into view. From our coign of vantage one might 


220 


ISLAND GOLD 


infallibly pick off any one who tried to rush our 
position from the path. Though I was inclined to 
think that the gang had had their fill of fighting 
for the day, I was glad to be in a position from 
which their next move must be unerringly revealed 
to me. 

I followed the girl’s invitation; for I was very 
weary. To tell the truth, I welcomed the chance 
of resting quietly for a spell. I needed to think 
out the grave difficulties besetting us. It was clear 
that we could not stay where we were, for I had 
only five rounds of ammunition left. And Mar¬ 
jorie, who sat by my side, her rich brown hair 
blowing out in the wind, her eyes fixed dreamily 
on the hideous image staring sardonically across 
the valley at us — I had to think of her. Hence¬ 
forth, any risk I took must inevitably imperil her 
safety ... it was a horrid thought. 

When would the Naomi come back? And could 
we risk holding out till the promised gun announced 
her return? She could not arrive at the earliest 
before the evening, I calculated. 

I brought out the bread and meat I had taken 
from the galley and we ate it together, side by 
side. Although the sun had not long risen there 
was already a heat in its rays which warned me of 
what its noonday fierceness would be. And I was 
keenly alive to the fact that we had no water. 

“I can see by your face,” said Marjorie sud- 



TWO HEADS BETTER THAN ONE 221 


denly, “that you are worrying about me. And I 
want to be a help, not an impediment. I made you 
an offer of partnership once before!” 

“I know,” I rejoined, “but I didn’t know you 
then! ...” * 

“I was so anxious to help,” she said. “And you 
would tell me nothing!” 

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about women,” 
I said. 

“Major Okewood,” exclaimed the girl, turning 
round and looking me full in the face, “you sur¬ 
prise me!” 

“It’s true . . .”1 began. 

But Marjorie laughed merrily. 

“You’re too delightful for words,” she said. 
“Why, my dear man, if you understood women 
you’d have ...” 

She broke off hastily and added: 

“There are only two kinds of men: those who 
say they do understand women and don’t, and 
those who admit they don’t and don’t. But all 
the same, don’t you think it’s rather insulting to 
one’s intelligence to find a man locking up his 
secrets in his heart simply because he’s read or 
heard somewhere that woman is not to be 
trusted?” 

I looked at her with interest. This young girl, 
with her ridiculous clump of reddish-brown hair, 
her slim straight limbs, her calm childlike eyes, 


222 


ISLAND GOLD 


made me feel like a naughty little boy being repri¬ 
manded by his mummy. 

“Yes,” I said limply, “I suppose it is!” 

For a minute her eyes encountered mine and 
in them I read her reproach. She dropped them 
almost at once and a sort of embarrassment 
silenced us. Then it suddenly occurred to me that 
she and I were alone; I wondered to find that 
neither the prospect of spending the night — 
maybe, several nights — in the company of a man 
of whom she knew next to nothing, nor the danger 
to which she was exposed, had shaken her out of 
her serenity. This girl was full of character. My 
wish, that poor man’s wish which I had hardly 
dared to own to myself on board the Naoltoi, rose 
to my mind with such force that I felt the blood 
mount to my face. 

But Marjorie took my hand and patted it as 
she might have patted a child’s. 

“Tell me about your mission!” she said. 

I kept her hand and, seated at her side in the 
shade of that ancient pillar, with the fresh breeze 
caressing our faces, I told her how Fate had put 
into my hands the message left by Ulrich 
von Hagel for Clubfoot and his gang. I described 
to her my efforts to unravel the cipher, which I 
repeated to her. 

“How does it go in German?” she asked; for 
I had given her the English version. 



TWO HEADS BETTER THAN ONE 223 


“You know German?” said I. 

She nodded. 

“I used to have a German Fraulein,” she 
answered. “She was a dear old thing, and as 
a small girl I often Went over to Boppard to stay 
with her people. I knew German rather well.” 

“Well,” said I, “here goes!” 

And I repeated the rhyme which had hammered 
its jingling measure into my brain: 

“Flimmer, flimmer, viel 
Die Garnison von Kiel 
Mit Kompass dann am bestem 
Denk’ an den Ordensfesten 
Am Zuckerhut vorbei 
Siehst Du die Lorelei ...” 

I broke off suddenly. 

“By Jove!” I exclaimed. “By — Jove!” 

I have spoken of the peaks which stood up in 
the valley between us and the stone image. The 
words of von Hagel’s doggerel sent my gaze rov¬ 
ing interrogatively across the open space, and 
presently it fell upon a tall slender rock with a 
smoothly rounded crest which raised itself erect 
in the foreground. And it dawned upon me that 
here was the Sugar Loaf of which von Hagel 
spoke. 

I glanced across the valley from right to 
left, past the image frowning through the wisp of 


224 


ISLAND GOLD 


smoke at its foot, to where other peaks raised 
their crests aloft to the blue sky. 

Suddenly I turned to Marjorie. 

“If you’ve been to Boppard,” I said, “you must 
know the Lorelei. Look where I am pointing 
and tell me if you see any rock which resembles 
it!” 

Leaning over until her hair brushed my cheek, 
the girl followed my pointing finger. 

“Why, yes!” she exclaimed, “that squat grey 
rock leaning over is rather like the Lorelei . . .” 

At last I felt that I was within measurable 
distance of the end of my quest. But between 
me and my goal was interposed that unsurmount- 
able four-barred obstacle, those enigmatical notes 
of music. 

I had identified the peaks, but what did they 
signify? What bearing had they on the hiding- 
place of the treasure? I felt utterly non-plussed 
and, for the first time discouraged. 

“What does it mean?” asked Marjorie at my 
elbow. “What has the Lorelei to do with the 
treasure?” 

I laughed rather bitterly. 

“If I were a musician,” I answered, “I should 
probably be able to tell you. As I am not . . .” 

“Please don’t be mysterious,” the girl bade me. 
“Tell me what you mean.” 

I told her of the four bars of music. 


TWO HEADS BETTER THAN ONE 225 


“They’re part of some German tune or other,” 
I told her. “It’s vaguely familiar to me, but I’m 
blessed if I can put any words to it. And I take 
it that the words are the thing!” 

“Can you hum the melody over to me?” asked 
Marjorie. 

Singing is not my forte. A combination of 
bashfulness and a cigarette-smoker’s throat pro¬ 
duce from my larynx when I attempt to sing 
sounds which I have always felt must be acutely 
distressing to my hearers. But Marjorie, listen¬ 
ing gravely with her head on one side, made me 
repeat my performance. 

Then she said: 

“But do you know you’re trying to sing a song 
that was all the rage in Germany when I was there 
just before the war? Listen! I’ll sing it to you!” 

And in a clear young voice she sang: 

“Puppchen, Du hist mein Augenstern, 

Puppchen, hah’ Dich zum Essen gem.” 

Then she checked herself suddenly and 
clutched my arm. “ 'Puppchen /” she said. “Oh, 
partner, don’t you see?” 

“No!” I replied dejectedly, “I confess I don’t! 
I know that k Puppchen means a ‘doll’ or a ‘little 
doll’; but I really don’t see ...” 

Marjorie raised her hand and pointed a slender 
finger at the saturnine image on the opposite side 


226 


ISLAND GOLD 


of the valley, seen between the Lorelei on the 
and the Sugar Loaf on the right. 

“There’s your doll!” she said. 

And I knew at last the riddle was read. 


CHAPTER XX 


THE BURIAL CHAMBER 

Much good the discovery did us, I reflected 
bitterly. A thousand, two, three thousand yards 
— in that thin atmosphere it was impossible to 
gauge distances accurately — of pathless moun¬ 
tain lay between us and the idol. Indeed, I 
hardly gave the solving of the riddle more than 
a passing thought now; for my mind was engaged 
in the more urgent problem of how to extricate 
Marjorie in safety from the perilous pass to 
which I had brought her. 

We could not remain on the rock indefinitely; 
that much was clear to me. Already, under the 
influence of the sun’s rays beating ever more 
fiercely down on that exposed ledge, the pangs 
of thirst were making themselves felt. It was 
Marjorie who mentioned it first. She asked if 
we could find water anywhere. At our level I 
thought it was doubtful and told her so. Marjorie 
Garth, I discovered, was a girl who liked to be 
told the truth. 

“What about that cave beyond the pillar?” 



228 


ISLAND GOLD 


she asked, leaning across me to point at the low 
opening I had remarked in the back wall of our 
ledge. 

“While it’s light,” I answered, “one of us must 
remain and guard the path. I don’t know what 
their inaction means . . . but we must be pre¬ 
pared for anything. Why don’t you have a look 
at the cave? But go carefully; the roof seems 
very low.” 

I gave her my hand and helped her up. She 
stepped across me, turned round and gave me a 
little smile, then bending down disappeared into 
the cave opening. And I, with my automatic in 
my hand, whilst I keenly watched the two little 
ribands of path below me, racked my brains to 
find a way out of our impasse. I would try and 
hold out till dark. If, by then, the Naomi had not 
come, we would endeavour, under cover of the 
night, to reach our cave on the shore and wait for 
her. If we were overpowered, I would capitulate 
and tell Clubfoot all I knew. In the meantime I 
should have to abandon my hunt for the treasure. 

A faint sound behind me made me start. It 
was shrill but distant. I listened. I heard it 
again, and this time I recognized the call. 

“Coo . . . eee!” 

It was Marjorie calling from the interior of the 
cave. With a quick glance at the path below, I 
scrambled to my feet. The entrance to the cave 


THE BURIAL CHAMBER 


229 


was not more than four feet high, and I had to 
bend almost double to enter. Within, for a few 
feet from the opening, there was enough light to 
see that the floor, brittle and crumbly, sloped 
down into a dark void. I felt my way cautiously 
along the side of the cave foot by foot, stooping 
low to avoid the roof and seeing nothing. Then, 
from somewhere far below, as it seemed at my 
very feet, the girl’s cry went forth again: 

“Coo . . . eee!” 

I stopped. 

“Right!” I shouted. “Where are you?” 

From far below the cry came up, faint and a 
little quavery. 

“Down here in the dark and I don’t like it! 
But I’ve found water! There are some steps 
cut in the rock!” 

The lure of the water was irresistible. I 
glanced at the path, above which hung a trembling 
curtain of heat. It was still deserted. I judged 
that I might safely risk a quick dash into the cave 
to quench my burning thirst. 

The cave narrowed as it receded into the rock 
and presently my foot shot out into space. I 
groped a bit and struck a shallow step. Then I 
suddenly remembered that I had a stump of candle 
in my pocket. I had picked it up on the previous 
evening when we had been loading the launch. 
An old campaigner never leaves candle-ends 


230 


ISLAND GOLD 


lying about. They are apt to come in useful 
as witness this case. 

So I struck a match and lit my bit of candle 
and peered down. The feeble ray only illumined 
a black void, a dark narrow shaft; but I saw that 
the steps descended almost sheer down one side. 
I was now able to stand erect, so, clutching the 
side of the rock with one hand and bearing my 
lighted candle in the other, I started the descent. 
And I counted as I went. 

I had counted fourteen steps when suddenly 
the ground appeared to give beneath my feet, 
I clutched wildly at the side of the rock, my hand 
slipped over the smooth surface and with a soft 
rumble the whole of the steps seemed to slip 
away. My light was extinguished and in a shower 
of crumbling rock and a cloud of acrid dust, 
I slithered into the black shaft. 

Well, I was blown sky-high once by a shell in 
France, and I remember struggling madly with 
mind and body, as it seemed when I looked back 
on the incident afterwards, against the invincible 
force which bore me upwards until I gave up the 
struggle . . . and never even remembered the 
subsequent bump. But in this case, though I 
fought all the way to check my fall, I never lost 
consciousness, and I felt in every bone of my body 
the terrific jar I received on landing on my back 
on a hard rocky floor. 


THE BURIAL CHAMBER 


231 


Some lingering echo told me that the girl 
had screamed, though I don’t think I really heard 
her voice. But the next thing I was aware of was a 
little whimpering sound. Then from the darkness 
the girl’s voice said: “Oh, Desmond!” and I 
heard a little sob. 

I felt dazed and shaken, but I staggered to 
my feet. 

“Marjorie!” I called, “where are you? I’m 
all right. There’s no damage done ...” 

I heard a footstep, then a hand was thrust into 
mine, a small warm hand that entwined its fingers 
in mine and wrung them hard. Then, scarcely 
realizing what I was doing or why I did it, I drew 
her to me and put my arms about her, felt the 
caress of her soft hair against my cheek as her 
head rested on my shoulder. 

And so we remained a minute or more in that 
inky darkness because we were glad to have found 
one another again. 

By some miracle I had kept my candle-end 
in my hand all through my fall. When presently 
Marjorie drew away from me, I fished out my 
matches and rekindled the stump. 

We found ourselves standing in a long narrow 
chamber with a roof which, low to start with, 
sloped down until it stood not more than four 
feet from the floor. The place smelt damp and 
musty, and here and there the walls gleamed wet 


232 


ISLAND GOLD 


where the light of the candle struck them. Along 
one side of the cave was a kind of stone slab. 

Just behind where we stood was the narrow 
shaft by which we had descended, at its foot a 
jumble of debris. I raised the candle aloft and 
strained my eyes to see up the shaft. I stared 
into blackness; but I noted that where the stairs 
had been cut there now remained nothing but 
the sheer overhanging wall of rock. 

I took Marjorie’s arm and pointed to the wet 
glistening on the walls. 

“Let’s drink first!” I said. 

My voice sounded strangely hollow in the 
vaulted place. I turned and led her to the rock. 
The water was dead cold and delightfully fresh 
to the touch. The girl put her lips to the wall 
and drank. I followed her example. She 
finished before I was through; for it seemed to 
me that the sun on that ledge outside had drained 
every drop of moisture out of my system and I 
drank and drank again. But suddenly she 
plucked my sleeve and whispered in an awed 
voice: 

“What . . . what is that?” 

She pointed at the stone slab of which I have 
spoken. It resembled a rough altar built up of 
big stones laid together like an Irish wall. And 
on it lay three or four long and shrunken-looking 
packets. The rays of my candle picked out a 


THE BURIAL CHAMBER 


233 


round substance that gleamed brightly through 
the wrappings of the nearest of these objects. 

Even before I stepped up to the stone table 
to get a closer inspection, I knew what they were. 
Here lay the bones of that forgotten race which 
had once inhabited Cock Island, the sculptors of 
the idol which had frowned at us across the 
valley. We had blundered into one of the island 
burial-places scooped out of the heart of the rock. 
The high light which my candle had caught up 
came from a thigh-bone which had worn its way 
through the bark envelope. The girl saw it, 
recognized it for what it was, and shrank away. 

“Let’s get away quickly from here!” said 
Marjorie nervously. “These . . . these mum¬ 
mies frighten me dreadfully. Desmond, take me 
out into the sunshine again ...” 

Her voice pleaded piteously, and it went to 
my heart. For I was wondering . . . 

“Good Lord!” I said, “they’re naught but a 
handful of dust. There’s nothing to be frightened 
of! Come and sit at the bottom of the shaft while 
I see about finding a way up!” 

I sat her down on a pile of debris and gave 
her the candle to hold while, mounting as high as 
I could on the heaped-up rubbish, I sought for 
a means of scaling the shaft. But the face of 
the rock from which the stairs had broken away 
under my weight, was now overhanging and so 


234 


ISLAND GOLD 


high that I could not see the top. The rest of the 
shaft was smooth and hard, and try as I would 
I could get hand- or foot-hold nowhere. 

My initial surmise had proved all too correct. 
To return by the way we had come was impossible. 
To reach the top we should require to be hauled 
up by a rope. But, in order not to frighten the 
girl, I kept on trying to find a way to clamber 
aloft. And all the time I was thinking that, 
failing any other egress, those blackened mummies 
were to be our companions until . . . 

At last, with torn hands and slashed boots, I 
climbed down again to where she sat. 

“No good,” I said. 

She stared at me in a dazed sort of way. 

“Oh,” she exclaimed wearily, “there must be 
a way up! We can’t stay here!” 

She sprang to her feet and clambered up on the 
debris, peering aloft. • I reached up and took her 
hand. 

“We’ll explore the cave and see if there’s 
another way out,” I said soothingly. 

Marjorie turned and looked down on me. 

“And if there isn’t ...” she began. “Oh,” 
she added hastily, “don’t think me a coward, but 
I have such a horror of shut-in places. And 
you’ve altered so much since we came down here, 
your voice is so grave, it scares me. Oh, 
Desmond, we’re not caught here for good ...” 


THE BURIAL CHAMBER 


235 


I smiled up at her. 

“How you run on!” I said as cheerfully as 
I could. “God bless my soul, we’re not at the end 
of our tether yet. There’s certain to be another 
exit at the far end of the cave ...” 

There was an opening of sorts; for one of the 
first things I had done on landing in the sub¬ 
terranean chamber was to see what means of 
escape it afforded other than that by which we 
had entered. But it was a slit, a mere air-hole 
in the living rock which, to judge by a cursory 
examination, would scarcely afford passage for 
a dog. 

I have been in some tight corners in my time, 
and it has always seemed to me that the most 
frightening thing about death is not the prospect of 
death itself, but rather the realization — and it 
usually comes upon one suddenly and without 
warning — of the inexorability of fate, the utter 
impotence of man to escape his destiny. And 
very soon after crashing down into the cave I 
had understood that our chances of escape were 
reduced almost to the vanishing point. 

We had no food, only water and air. Death 
by slow starvation awaited us unless we could 
attract attention and secure help. Clubfoot and 
his people might he willing enough in their own 
interest to rescue us. But what chance had we, 
immured in the bowels of the earth as we were, 


236 


ISLAND GOLD 


of letting him know where we were? And how 
was Garth to find us when the Naomi came 
back? . . . 

But Marjorie had risen to her feet. Her face 
was a little flushed and there was a glitter of 
excitement in her eyes: 

“That’s it!” she cried; “there must, of course, 
be another way out!” 

And picking up the candle-end she darted 
across the cave. 

I hadn’t the heart to follow her. Better, I 
thought, that she should realize for herself our 
true situation. Sooner or later she must under¬ 
stand. I saw the yellow glimmer of the light at 
the end of the rock chamber and watched great 
shadows flicker across the roof as she moved the 
candle to and fro. Then she was beside me again, 
the candle between us, and I knew by the convul¬ 
sive movement of her shoulders that she wept. 

What could I do? What hope had I to offer? 
I stretched out my hand and she clasped it. Then, 
to spare our sole illuminant, I put out the candle. 
I had thirty-four wax matches left. 

Thus hand in hand we sat for some time in 
silence. The darkness was thick and clammy 
like a black velvet pall, the sort of darkness of 
which the city-dweller has no experience. 
Presently the girl grew calmer and with one or 
two shuddering sighs her sobs ceased. 


THE BURIAL CHAMBER 


237 


“My dear,” said I, “I want you to have faith 
in me. I have been up against it so often: yet 
always in the end I have come out all right.” 
I broke off; it was hard to speak with conviction. 

“I am afraid,” the girl moaned, “so terribly 
afraid. At the front I used to be proud of having 
less nerves than the other girls. But to sit still, 
in the dark, and wait for death. ... I never 
imagined anything so terrible. Do ... do 
you know that I have to keep a tight hold on 
myself to keep myself from screaming?” 

“Yes,” I said; “and I want to tell you, 
Marjorie, that I think it’s wonderful how well 
you take it. Fve seen men get hysterical with 
much less reason!” 

“And you?” asked Marjorie; “aren’t you 
afraid of death?” 

“When it comes, yes,” I answered. “But this 
job of ours, my dear, teaches us to live for the 
present and let the future take care of itself. At 
the front the worst part of a push was the waiting 
for it; when the whistles went and the barrage 
lifted, one forgot all one’s doubts and fears. And 
the only way to get through that bad afternoon 
before zero hour was to live for the moment, 
concentrate on the petty fatigues and annoyances 
of humdrum life, and decline to cross one’s 
bridges until one came to them ...” 

“But aren’t you fond of life?” 


238 


ISLAND GOLD 


“It’s no good being fond of anything on this 
earth,” I told her, “because you’re irredeemably 
compelled to lose it in the end. ...” 

The girl was silent. 

Somewhere in the cave there echoed the melan¬ 
choly drip of water. 

“Have you ever been in love?” she asked 
suddenly. 

4< Of course I have, the same as anybody else.” 
But she was not content with generalities. I had 
to tell her about a girl at Darjeeling, when I was 
a young sub., whose abrupt change of mind had 
once and for all put all idea of matrimonial 
bliss out of my head. 

“Have you ever been in love?” I challenged, 
by way of changing the conversation. But she 
evaded the question. 

“You’d marry if you met the ideal woman?” 
she queried. 

“Perhaps circumstances would prevent it 
again,” said I. 

“What is your ideal woman like?” 

Again I heard that sad splash of water from 
the darkness and it brought me back with a pang 
to our position. I smiled to think of us two, 
imprisoned in this death-chamber of the Southern 
Seas, calmly discussing the eternal question of 
life. 

“She’s tall and slim and clean in mind and 


THE BURIAL CHAMBER 


239 


body,” said I: “she must trust me and be a com¬ 
panion as well as a lover!” 

“Have you ever met her . . . since the girl 
at Darjeeling?” 

“My dear,” I said, “the girl at Darjeeling is 
now a stout divorcee , who, as the price of her 
husband’s freedom from her shocking temper, 
retains the custody of the children whom she 
neglects disgracefully ...” 

The girl laughed a low little laugh. 

“How severe you are!” she commented. Then 
she asked: “But have you met your ideal since?” 

“Yes,” said I, knowing full well whither the 
conversation was drifting. 

“Then why don’t you marry her?” 

“I haven’t asked her,” I said. 

“But why not, if she is your ideal?” 

“Because,” I replied, throwing caution to 
the winds — and, after all, what was convention 
to us in our circumstances? — “she is too rich!” 

“You don’t ask /Tie,” said the girl after a 
pause, “whether I have an ideal?” 

“Naturally,” I retorted, “since you evaded 
answering my question when I asked you if you 
had ever been in love ...” 

“The man I marry,” she said in a low voice, 
“must make me feel such confidence in him 
that even in the hour of death I shall not be 
afraid ...” 



240 


ISLAND GOLD 


I dropped her hand and stood up. It’s all 
very well to be philosophical about meeting death 
when you have no attachment on earth; but this 
slim, proud girl with the grey eyes and the clust¬ 
ering brown hair was stimulating in me the desire 
to live. 

I struck a match and lit the candle. 

“It’s now a quarter to four in the afternoon,” 
I said. “In order to spare our forces as much 
as possible, we will shout once in turn every 
quarter of an hour in case there should be any¬ 
body above on the shelf. I’ll start now!” 

And raising my head up the shaft I halloed. 
My voice started the echoes ringing through the 
cave, but no human voice responded. 

“And now,” I said, “I believe we’ll have 
another look at that air-hole. Some of this 
volcanic rock is very brittle and we might be 
able to enlarge the opening ...” 

We crossed the cave together, bending as the 
roof sloped down towards the farther end. The 
opening was a long narrow slit, not two feet 
deep, the top-side jagged with snags of rock. The 
candle guttered as I held it in the orifice and 
I felt the cool air on my face. 

It was undoubtedly an outlet into the fresh air: 
but how could one hope to worm one’s way 
through that narrow vent? I thrust my hand 
with the candle into the opening and my arm 


THE BURIAL CHAMBER 


241 


went in up to the shoulder. It seemed to be a 
passage; for my hand encountered no resistance 
and the roof, if it did not get any higher, was not 
any lower. The rock was hard and solid. 

I drew back and scanned the opening. It 
reminded me of the entrance of some caves where 
we used to scramble at school. “Cox’s Hole” 
had just such a narrow squeeze at the entrance, 
which, however, opened up into quite a stately 
grotto beyond. I peeled off my jacket, then took 
off my collar and tie. 

“Where I can go,” I said to Marjorie, “you 
can! I’m going to have a shot to get through!” 

The girl made no comment. She knelt on the 
hard floor of the cavern, her hands clasped in 
front of her. But she smiled as though to 
encourage me. 

I didn’t get far. My head went through all 
right; but a jutting edge of rock hanging down 
caught my shoulders and pinned me tight. 
Wriggle and thrust as I would I could make no 
progress at all, and at length, in order not to 
stick inextricably, I had to give it up. 

As I turned and looked at her an idea struck 
me. Marjorie Garth was slim and very supple, 
and but for her softly rounded throat and the 
gentle swell of her bosom, one might have taken 
her for a boy. 

“My dear,” said I, “you must have a try. It’s 


242 


ISLAND GOLD 


only my breadth of shoulders that prevents me 
from getting through. I believe you’ll manage 
all right ...” 

The girl looked at me open-eyed. 

“And leave you here?” was all she said. 

I took her hand. 

“Listen to me! The yacht must be back very 
soon. You can hide somewhere near the shore 
and, when you hear the gun, make your way to 
our cave on the beach and wait for the Naomi s 
launch. You run the risk, I know, of falling into 
Clubfoot’s hands again. But you have a sporting 
chance. Believe me, if you stay here, you haven’t 
even that ...” 

With a quick gesture the girl sank her face in 
her hands. 

“No!” she exclaimed, “No, no! I can’t do it! 
I can’t leave you like this!” 

Gently I drew her hands away from her tear- 
stained face. 

“Fate has sent us this chance,” I reminded 
her, “and we must take it. I told you I always 
come out on top in the end, and this is our 
opportunity. Isn’t it better to have a run for your 
life than to stay here and die like a rat in a hole? 
If there should prove to be a way out, you can 
always come back to the air-hole and report to me. 
If there isn’t, we can be together again ...” 

Marjorie nodded silently. 


THE BURIAL CHAMBER 


243 


“If Grundt,” she said presently, “should 
capture me again, he may cross-examine me about 
the cipher ...” 

“Tell him nothing!” I answered promptly. 

“But if he makes it a condition for rescuing 
you ...” 

“Then I have told you nothing. That is my 
secret, Marjorie. If Clubfoot is to be told, I shall 
tell him myself. Promise me that you will keep 
faith!” 

“But if the only means of saving you is to 
tell Clubfoot what he wants to know ...” 

“Clubfoot will never guess that you know 
unless you tell him. Remember he is a German, 
and therefore has no opinion of women. He 
would never imagine that I had told you anything 
about the hiding-place of the treasure. Trust 
me, my dear! Our luck is in again! If you get 
out, I shall too, somehow — depend on me!” 

Then while she took off her shoes I divided 
the candle in two. I thrust her shoes, together 
with her half of the candle, as far as I could reach 
in the opening. I gave her half of my store of 
matches. She put them in her breeches pocket. 
Then I turned and we faced one another in the 
darkness. 

“Good luck, partner,” I said. “We shall meet 
again soon!” 

“I feel that I am abandoning you,” she 


244 


ISLAND GOLD 


answered in a low voice. “Supposing I should 
fail?” 

“You’ll have made me very happy in the 
knowledge that you’ve escaped!” 

With a little catch in her voice she demanded: 

“Don’t you think of yourself at all?” 

“It’s more pleasant to think of you!” 

She made a little pause. Then she softly 
whispered: “Money doesn’t count down here!” 
and lifted her face to mine. 

I took her in my arms and kissed her whilst 
she clung to me in the darkness. Then she 
dropped to her knees and crawled into the open¬ 
ing. For a few instants the yellow glimmer of 
the candle was obscured and I heard her breath¬ 
ing hard. Then the faint glimmer of light 
reappeared and I heard her voice from the other 
side. 

“There’s a winding passage and the air is 
quite fresh. The wind is blowing in my face. 
Good-bye, Desmond, dear!” 

“Au revoir, my dear!” I cried out of the dark¬ 
ness, and silence fell again. 

I stood there listening for a spell; then, follow¬ 
ing the advice of the French sage who said 
that he who sleeps dines, I stretched myself out 
on the rocky floor and soon fell into a heavy 
slumber. 


THE BURIAL CHAMBER 


245 


When I awoke I relit my stump of candle. My 
watch had stopped. In that damning darkness 
it was impossible to tell whether it was night or 
day. I sat up and stretched myself with no 
other sensation save that I was ravenously hungry. 
The silence was oppressive. I lay back against 
the rocky wall and waited. . . . 


CHAPTER XXI 


A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS AND WHAT 

CAME OF IT 

The slit extended for only a few feet. Then 
the roof sloped up again. Marjorie found her¬ 
self in a narrow passage with the fresh breeze 
blowing on her face. In fact, the draught was 
so great that the candle went out directly, and 
she had to put on her shoes and grope her way 
forward in pitch darkness. 

Her great fear was that the passage might lead 
to others, and that, before she knew it, she would 
be involved in a maze of subterranean galleries 
and, if the worst came to the worst, not even be 
able to rejoin me. She tried to maintain her 
direction by keeping always close to the right- 
hand wall and by counting her steps. But the 
gallery was so dark and it twisted so frequently 
that she soon lost count. At last she went blindly 
along, stopping at intervals to satisfy herself that 
she still felt the wind on her cheek. 

She had halted irresolute and was thinking about 
turning back when, out of the darkness in front 


A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS 247 


of her, a little glow appeared. At first a mere 
suggestion of light, it grew to a steady yellow 
radiance that lit up, though but dimly, the rocky 
roof of the corridor. The light itself appeared 
to be concealed by a bend in the gallery. 

Marjorie remained perfectly still, her heart 
beating fast. Footsteps were approaching; then 
the murmur of voices reached her ear. Her first 
instinct was to turn tail and flee; but then the 
footsteps stopped and the light stood still. 

“Four and twenty hours already are they 
away,” said a deep rumbling voice in German, 
“and not back yet! Der Stelze is too confident, 
Herr Leutnant ...” 

“Yet the doctor described exactly where he 
tied up the launch,” answered another voice, 
hard and metallic, with a more refined enun¬ 
ciation. “Do you know what I think, Schroder? 
This English nobleman and his orderly have 
seized the launch ...” 

“Aber nein, Herr Leutnant?” 

“And gone off to fetch their yacht back. She 
only went to Alcedo, at least so the doctor told 
us ... ” 

“Then the yacht may be back quite soon, 
Herr Leutnant?” 

“Certainly! That’s my conviction. And to 
think that Grundt had this cursed Englander in 
his power and let him go!” 


248 


ISLAND GOLD 


“Bah!” said Schroder, “he grows old, der 
Stelze! Here three days are gone and not a 
trace of the treasure. In a little while who 
knows? — these damned Englander will be here 
and our chance of making our fortunes will be 
gone for ever.” 

“You speak true, Schroder! If only I had any 
support, I would depose Grundt and take charge 
myself. But with these filthy Spanish 

monkeys ...” 

“Speak softly, Herr Leutnant ...” 

Intent as she was upon this conversation, 
Marjorie did not notice the light advancing until 
it was too late. Round the bend in the passage 
came a big, yellow-bearded German sailor swing¬ 
ing a ship’s lantern, the blond young German 
officer, Ferdinand von Hagel, at his heels. In 
an instant they were on her and, gripping her by 
the wrists, dragged her down the gallery in the 
direction from which they had come. In silence 
they hustled her along for some hundred paces, 
then stopped at a bend. 

“Wait here!” whispered the officer to Schroder, 
an evil smile on his face, “I go to reconnoitre. 
This will be a pleasant surprise for our 
comrades ...” 

He tiptoed away. Suddenly, from without, 
a harsh voice cried loudly: 

“You idle rascals, the launch must be there!” 


A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS 249 


There was a confused murmur, and the voice 
spoke again: 

“Then the English yacht may be back at any 
time now ...” 

Von Hagel appeared in the gallery. 

“Bring her along!” he ordered softly, beckon¬ 
ing with his hand. 

The harsh voice shouted: 

“Well, we shall have to fight for it!” 

“No, Herr Doktor /” said von Hagel at the 
mouth of the gallery. “No! There need be no 
fight!” 

They had emerged into a rocky hollow, flooded 
with brilliant sunshine which almost blinded 
Marjorie coming from the dank, dark recesses of 
the cliff. An arm of vivid green tree hung across 
the opening of the passage, and beyond it there 
was a glimpse of gorgeous-hued bushes, over 
which the painted butterflies hovered, of bright 
blue sky, and, in the distance, sparkling green 
sea. And across the scene the keen sea-breezes 
romped, blowing the hair about the girl’s eyes, 
a breath of life after the clammy atmosphere of 
the cave. 

His back to a tree, a ragged blanket cast across 
his knees, the Man with the Club Foot lay. His 
face was pallid and his huge body shook with 
ague. Before him stood two uncouth figures, 
each with a rifle and blanket slung, poncho- 


250 


ISLAND GOLD 


fashion, across him, the centre of an excited, 
gesticulating group. 

“Sir Garth,” the German lieutenant added, 
bringing Marjorie forward, “will surely listen 
to reason when he hears that his charming 
daughter is the guest of Herr Dr. Grundt! And, 
maybe, even the spy, Okewood, will come to 
terms ...” 

“So, so!” 

Clubfoot’s thick lips bared his yellow teeth 
in a grim smile. 

“Das ist ja hochst interessant! Ja wohl!” 

He raised his eyes to the girl, dark eyes that 
burnt with fever beetling from under the enor¬ 
mously bushy eyebrows, eyes that gleamed hard 
and menacing. 

But now the crowd, which had fallen back at 
von Hagel’s dramatic interruption, surged about 
him and Marjorie, shouting and gesticulating. The 
hollow rang with German and Spanish. 

“Where is the Englishman?” they yelled. 
“Grundt, what of the treasure you promised us? 
The girl knows! Make the girl tell! ...” 

Grundt raised a great hand, and, for the 
moment, the hubbub was stilled. 

“Old Clubfoot is not at the end of his resources. 
Kinder , we have a hostage, a hostage we mean to 
keep. Let the yacht return; as long as the 
gnddiges Frdulein is our guest, we shall have no 


A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS 251 


trouble from the stupid Englishmen. And as for 
our clever young friend, Okewood . . . Herr 
Leutnant?” 

“Herr Doktor?” 

“The Englander was last seen in company with 
the girl. Take two men and search the gallery!” 

Von Hagel coloured up at the brusqueness of 
Grundt’s tone. 

“Schroder here,” he said, without a shred of 
respect in his manner, “has explored the gallery. 
It leads to a small air-hole through which he be¬ 
lieves the girl crawled. No man, he says, could 
possibly get through ...” 

“Then,” said Clubfoot, “the Englander will be 
in one of the caves on the topmost terrace. Unless 
he has escaped?” 

And he shot a quick glance at the officer. 

“Impossible,” replied the other. “There is 
only the one practicable descent and it is guarded 

• • • 

Clubfoot nodded. Then he raised his hand. 

“Go now!” he said, “and leave me with the 
girl!” 

On that von Hagel bent down and spoke softly 
in his ear. He seemed to be urging something 
with great insistence. Suddenly one of the Span¬ 
iards — a short man with a fat grey face, covered 
with blue stubble, and little pig eyes — danced 
to the front of the group. He burst into a torrent 


252 


ISLAND GOLD 


of voluble Spanish, shaking his fist repeatedly at 
Clubfoot. The latter did not move a muscle, but 
looked at the speaker with contempt in every line 
of his face. 

It was not until some of the Germans broke in 
that Marjorie could understand what the scene was 
about. 

“We’re sick of being fooled,” cried the big 
seaman they called Schroder. “The Kaiser’s de¬ 
posed, d’ye hear, and we’re all equal! You’ve 
bungled things long enough, Grundt. You let the 
cursed English spy slip through your fingers with 
the hiding-place of the treasure in his head! 
You’re past your work, Grundt! You’ve botched 
our business long enough!” 

“Ganz recht /” ejaculated another German. “And 
poor Neque got a bullet in the guts for saying as 
much to you in the woods yesterday!” 

This explained the single shot we had heard 
in the forest when we were on the rock. 

“And the doctor murdered by this verdammt 
Englander!” shouted a voice from the rear. 

“Three days we’ve wasted here and not a sign 
of the treasure,” said von Hagel, looking round 
the group. “What have you to say to that, 
Grundt?” 

Clubfoot, who had remained impassive under 
all this abuse, now staggered to his feet. No man 
lent a hand to help him. He stood and faced 


A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS 253 


them, towering above them all. Ill though he was, 
his personality dominated every man in that place. 
A flame of colour mounted in his haggard face; 
two veins stood out like knots in his temples and 
his eyes blazed. His two hands, crossed on the 
crutch of his stick, shook. 

“Are you a candidate for my succession, Herr 
Leutnant ?” 

He addressed himself to von Hagel alone, and 
his voice was calm and steady. But then his feel¬ 
ings seemed to overcome him, and with a roar he 
shouted: 

“You insubordinate rascal! I can afford to 
let these curs yelp, but when the whipper-in joins 
them, it’s time for the Master to use the lash!” 

With that he raised his heavy stick and struck 
the other full across the face. With a scarlet 
weal barring his pink-and-white cheek, von Hagel 
sprang at his assailant, but a big automatic which 
Grundt had plucked from his pocket brought him 
up short. 

“I used only one bullet on Neque,” Clubfoot 
warned him in a quiet, grim voice. “There’s one 
left for you, Herr Leutnant , aye, and more to 
spare for other mutinous blackguards like you.” 

Von Hagel stepped back, broken, cowed. And 
Clubfoot cried: 

“While this puppy wastes our time, the man 
we want, the man who can lead us to the five 


254 


ISLAND GOLD 


hundred thousand dollars in gold, is skulking 
trapped in a cave, not a thousand yards away. 
Fools that you are, don’t you understand that you 
have but to let him know that the English girl 
is in our hands and he will throw up the sponge? 
Otherwise ...” 

He paused deliberately and looked at Marjorie 
from under his heavy brows. The crowd shouted 
back at him in German the word on which he had 
rested. 

“Sonst?” 

“Otherwise he must know that I shall hand this 
delicate English lady to the tender mercies of any 
of our brave companions who has fallen a victim 
to her beauty — Black Pablo, for instance, or our 
handsome steward, Pizarro . . .” 

At that the crowd roared approval. Black 
Pablo, his guitar slung across his back, a squat, 
toadlike creature, obese and disgusting, slouched 
over to the girl. He contrived to summon up from 
the depths of his single dull and fishlike eye an 
expression which made her shrink back in horror. 
Then, amid a burst of laughter, “handsome” 
Pizarro, the stunted mulatto cook, was pushed 
out of the press. He shambled towards Marjorie, 
his eyeballs flashing white in his yellow pock¬ 
marked face. 

“Go, children!” cried Clubfoot. “Drag this 
spy from his hole and bring him to me. This 


A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS 255 


time he shall speak, by God! — or we shall finish 
with it once and for all!” 

Again he looked at Marjorie. The gold in his 
teeth flashed as he smiled with cruel malice. 
Then, as though overcome by the demand he had 
made upon his strength, he dropped back on his 
blankets once more. 

The hollow was all astir as the men set out. 
They had camped at the foot of the terraced rock 
on the high ground overlooking the clearing with 
the grave, beyond it the broad sweep of Horseshoe 
Bay between the curved arms of land enclosing 
the lagoon. 

“Take ropes!” counselled Clubfoot from his 
bed beneath the trees. “You may have to descend 
into the caves ...” 

The seaman, Schroder, brought out some 
lengths of rope and hurried after the string of 
men, who, in Indian file, streamed out of the 
hollow, talking and laughing like a pack of school¬ 
boys. Not a man remained behind. Even Pizarro, 
the coloured cook, went along. Black Pablo, the 
leader of the party, who was the last to go, wanted 
to leave a guard over Marjorie. But Clubfoot 
would not hear of it. 

“Amigo mio he said, “El Cojo is not so old 
as that young jackanapes would make out. I 
cannot climb while this cursed fever is on me. But 
I can look after myself — and anybody else who 



256 


ISLAND GOLD 


does me the honour of spending this pleasant 
afternoon in my company ...” 

Black Pablo laughed stridently. They heard 
his feet ring sharply on the rocky ground. The 
next moment he was gone, and the peace of a 
summer afternoon descended upon the hollow, the 
soothing quiet of droning insects, of a little 
breeze stirring gently in the thick foliage, the 
distant drumming of the sea. 

Clubfoot began to speak to Marjorie. 




CHAPTER XXII 
I INTERRUPT A TfiTE-A-TfiTE 


“An unpleasant scene of violence, mein liebes 
Fraulein he remarked, dabbing his forehead 
with a red handkerchief, “which might so easily 
have been avoided. But, when men take passion 
instead of reason for guide — was wollen Sie? 
The war destroyed logical thinking. To-day it is 
rare to find any one capable of taking a perfectly 
dispassionate view of life. Ja wohl! ...” 

Marjorie wondered vaguely what he meant. 
His manner was ingratiating; but she was con¬ 
scious that he was watching her closely to mark the 
effect of his words. 

“We Germans lost the war. Therefore, a man 
like your friend Okewood believes that every¬ 
where and in all circumstances the German must 
be in a state of inferiority. How short-sighted, 
meine Gnddige! And what a blemish this want 
of logic signifies in an otherwise remarkable 
character! To go no farther afield in search of 
an illustration than this delightful island — war 
or no war, the fact remains that the strength of 
my little party puts the Herr Major in an inferi¬ 
ority of thirteen to one. How much wiser on his 



258 


ISLAND GOLD 


part it would have been to have recognized this 
fact yesterday! Let us hope that you will not be 
so ill-advised as to ignore it! You take my mean¬ 
ing? How quick you are! ...” 

For a minute his thick fingers drummed on the 
blanket thrown across him. 

“Your Herr father has gone to fetch the yacht, 
nicht wahr?” 

“It is no use asking me,” replied Marjorie. “I 
have not seen my father since I landed on the 
island ...” 

“So, so! 9 ’ placidly observed Grundt, ‘"another 
question for friend Okewood presently. But 
perhaps you can tell me what has become of 
Herr Okewood? Where exactly did you leave 
him?” 

Marjorie was thinking desperately. It was 
merely a matter of time, probably only of minutes 
now, she reflected, before I should be captured 
and dragged out of the cave. But some instinct 
prompted her, as she told me afterwards, to give 
no infonnation about me until she had actually 
seen me once more in Grundt’s power. So she 
simply shrugged her shoulders. 

“I trust that this gesture does not imply,” said 
Clubfoot, “that you do not know where you left 
Major Okewood, for that would be acting a lie. 
And lying, meine Gnddige, will do you no good 
in your present predicament. You must not take 


I INTERRUPT A TfiTE-A-TfiTE 259 


advantage of our good nature, o, nein! Do not 
forget that on a desert island man is apt to sink 
back into his primitive state ...” 

His voice was gentle and caressing; but the 
implication in his words was horrible. 

“You come to us unbidden. You throw your¬ 
self upon our chivalry. Ja! that is all very well. 
But have you made sure that the conventions of 
civilized life obtain in this little island republic of 
which I am president? Hein , hein , had you 
thought of that? But won’t you please sit down?” 

“I prefer to stand,” replied the girl shortly. 

“You make me do discredit to our old Ger¬ 
man courtesy, liebes Fraulein. I cannot sit while 
you remain standing. And in this hot sun . . . 
bitte!” 

With his spadelike hand he smoothed out a 
place on the grass under the shade of his tree. 
Dully, almost against her will, Marjorie sank 
down. 

A gleam awoke in the cripple’s eyes as he 
pawed the girl’s bare arm. 

“Listen!” he said, lowering his voice confi¬ 
dentially and leaning towards her. “The Span¬ 
iards of my party come without exception from 
the lowest scum of the Central American seaboard. 
Their table talk is enlivened with anecdotes of their 
— shall we say — conquests? — which fill even 
me with disgust and dismay. And my Germans 


260 


ISLAND GOLD 


— yes, I, a good German, must admit it — they, 
too, have forgotten something of the conventions 
of civilized life. For five years or more they have 
been outlaws, dirty Boches, the rejected of man¬ 
kind — they who are of that race” — his voice 
rang triumphant, but then trembled and broke — 
“Gott! that is the salt of the earth!” 

For an instant he seemed to be genuinely 
moved. Bitter memories kindled a spark of anger 
in his fierce dark eyes. But the mood passed 
swiftly, and his voice was gentle, his manner sleek 
as before, when he resumed: 

“You make it difficult, very difficult for me. 
You come here, a delicate, fair young maid, and 
you expect to live unscathed in a camp of rough 
men; for I do not conceal from you the fact, Miss 
Garth, that unless your father is reasonable, you 
may be with us for many days ...” 

He broke off suggestively. The girl dared not 
look at him for fear of the thought unspoken she 
might read in his leering eyes. 

“Would you be surprised to learn — it is 
always best to be frank, nicht wahr? — that it will 
require an armed guard to keep these men away 
from you at night? ...” 

At that Marjorie revolted. She sprang to her 
feet and walked away, sickened at the picture he 
had suggested to her by every word. Grundt 
made no attempt to follow her. 


I INTERRUPT A TfiTE-A-TfiTE 261 

“I am sure you will be reasonable,” he mur¬ 
mured. 

A man burst turbulently into the hollow. It was 
von Hagel. He was smeared all over with grey 
dust and his heavy boots showed white gashes 
where the rocks had cut them. He was pale and 
the livid weal across his right cheek seemed to 
distort his features. 

“Well?” said Grundt sternly. 

The young man made a helpless gesture of the 
hands. Slowly Clubfoot sat up erect and a heavy 
scowl drew his eyebrows together. One could 
almost see the young German quake as he stood 
before his leader, dumb, confused, aimlessly mov¬ 
ing his hands. At last he faltered out: 

“He is not there!” 

A convulsion of anger seemed to shake the 
huge cripple. The close-shaven hair of his scalp 
moved, his heavy nostrils twitched, as solidly, 
viciously, his great jowl set. 

“Not there!” he ejaculated hoarsely, his voice 
strangling with anger. “What do you mean ‘not 
there’? Black Pablo’s orders were to bring him 
down to me. Why has he not done so? — Himmel - 
kreuzdonnerwetter!” — his hairy hands beat on 
his knee with rage — “why don’t you answer 
me: 

“We . . . we . . . gained the top shelf un¬ 
observed,” stammered out von Hagel. “It was 


262 


ISLAND GOLD 


deserted. There is only one cave — with a clear 
drop down. The steps appear to have quite 
recently broken away. Pablo, Schroder, and I 
went with torches — they let us down with ropes. 
We came to a lower chamber where some native 
dead are buried. At the end was the narrow air- 
slit through which the girl escaped ...” 

“And the Englander was not there, you say?” 

“No!” 

“ Schafskopf! He was never there!” 

“We saw him enter it. Besides, we found burnt 
matches on the ground and the ashes of his pipe 
• • • 

“Then he went out by the air-hole ...” 

“It is too narrow. Ramon, who is slightly built, 
could not get through ...” 

“And there is no other cave?” 

“No!” 

“Evidently he left by the way he entered and 
escaped under the noses of your sentries ...” 

“Impossible, Herr Doktor! By the way he 
went in, without ropes both ascent and descent are 
out of the question. And since early morning 
the path, which is the only means of access to 
the cliff, has been guarded ...” 

Shaking with ague, Clubfoot was struggling to 
regain his self-control. 

Erlauben Sie /” he said in a voice half- 
suffocated with rage, “let us get this right. I 


I INTERRUPT A TfiTE-A-TfiTE 263 


do not admit miracles. We know that the Eng¬ 
lander and the girl took refuge in this cave. Gut! 
The girl, we know, came out through the air¬ 
hole. Where is, then, the man?” 

Von Hagel looked at Marjorie. 

“Why not ask the girl?” he suggested. 

“You’ve heard what he said,” screamed Club¬ 
foot, whipping round and shaking his finger at 
Marjorie; “where did you leave this man?” 

Then Marjorie told them she had left me in 
the cave. 

“Sehen Sie?” roared Clubfoot. “He’s escaped 
under your very snouts, Schweinhunde that you 
are! He’s in that cave yet! Get out of my sight, 
you dog! And send Black Pablo here! Tell 
him he has to reckon with me now! And, by God, 
if I have to go to him myself ...” 

Von Hagel had turned and fled. The cripple 
had risen to his knees. The perspiration poured 
off his face as, with trembling limbs, he vainly 
strove to overcome the weakness that mastered 
him while he mouthed and mumbled a stream of 
threats. 

Then from the sea a gun spoke, a single report 
that broke the brooding silence of the island 
and went echoing and clanging among the tall, 
grave rocks. Clubfoot’s babble ceased on the 
instant. He desisted from his attempt to rise to 
his feet and remained immobile save for the trem- 


264 


ISLAND GOLD 


bling of his great torso. Slowly he turned bis 
head and looked at Marjorie, who, transfixed with 
fear, was watching him. 

Thus I found them as, a moment later, I 
stepped into the hollow. 

‘‘Sit down, Grundt!” I said. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


CAPITULATION 

Racked with fever though he was, his presence 
of mind did not forsake him. In a flash his 
whistle was at his lips and three shrill blasts rang 
piercingly among the rocks. With the other hand 
he snatched up his automatic. 

It was done with such lightning speed that he 
had me at a disadvantage. Though I had my 
pistol in my hand when I challenged Grundt, I 
was completely thrown off my balance by the 
glimpse I had of Marjorie who, with the blood 
drained from her face, stood swaying against a 
boulder as if about to faint. For a fraction of a 
second I took my eyes off the cripple and in that 
second he had me covered. 

“Move and you’re dead!” he snarled at me. 
“Drop that gun! Drop it, d’ye hear?” 

“You’re welcome to it,” I said as I pitched it 
on a tussock between us. “I’ve come to capitu¬ 
late, Grundt! You win!” 

“Very clever! Oh, very clever, indeed!” he 
sneered. “You imagine, I suppose, that Clubfoot, 
the stupid old Boche, did not hear that gun from 


$ 


266 


ISLAND GOLD 


the sea just now? Your friends may have 
arrived back, Herr Major. But little good they’ll 
do you. I am going to kill you!” 

Even as he spoke, into the turquoise horseshoe 
of sea at his back the Naomi came steaming, the 
sun flaming here and there on her polished brass- 
work, a glittering white ship as snowy as the 
spume that creamed in her wake. So clear was 
the atmosphere that I could see the white-clad 
figures running about her decks. I strained my 
ears to catch if I might the clang of her engine- 
room telegraph ringing her down to “slow.” But 
the wind was off the land and no sound came 
from the Naomi . She might have been a phantom 
ship, such a spectre as, they say, visits a man in 
the hour of death. 

And, in truth, it seemed as though for me the 
hour of death were at hand. Grundt’s evil eyes 
and grim mouth set above the gleaming blue 
barrel of the great automatic were ample evidence 
that his words were no idle threat. He shifted 
his grip to get a better aim and I looked away 
from that sinister face, away from the Naomi and 
her promise of home, away from the glistening 
sea and the swaying green palms to Marjorie. She 
stood like a white marble statue. Only her eyes 
seemed yet to live and they were wide with 
terror. 

Again Clubfoot’s whistle rang out. I turned 


CAPITULATION 


267 


to see his forehead puckered in a questioning 
frown. I shrugged my shoulders. 

“What chance has the Naomi against you and 
your men, Grundt?” I asked. “A pleasure 
yacht is not equipped to send off cutting-out ex¬ 
peditions, you know! You are fully armed and 
well-entrenched in the island! It seems to me 
that your fears are exaggerated! ...” 

“Fine words, fine words!” he muttered. “Never¬ 
theless, in a minute you are going to die! . . .” 

He took out his watch and laid it on the blanket 
before him. 

“When I told you I had come to capitulate,” 
I rejoined, “I spoke the truth. I have found the 
treasure. And there is proof!” 

I opened my left hand and flung at his feet 
• a handful of gold. Twenty-mark pieces, they 
dropped softly on the blankets and lay there 
gleaming in the sunshine, the Kaiser’s head and 
the Imperial eagle plain for him to see. 

I had shaken him. I knew it at a glance. He 
looked down at the gold, his eyes narrowing with 
suspicion. 

“Also dock!” he murmured—that conveniently 
elastic German phrase which means “By Jove, he’s 
done it!” or, “Well, I never!” or, “Fd never have 
thought it!” or anything more or less along these 
lines you care to fit to it. 

“Let Miss Garth and me go free to rejoin the 


268 ISLAND GOLD 

yacht,” I said. “And I’ll tell you where the 
treasure’s hid!” 

He stiffened up at once. 

“It is not for you to dictate to me, you scum!” 
he cried. “Unconditional surrender is the only 
kind of surrender 1 understand. Say what you 
have to say and I will then decide what I shall 
do with you . . .” 

I glanced seaward. And my heart stood still. 
The Naomi had vanished. Had it been but a 
vision after all? 

“Come on!” urged Grundt, scowling. “I have 
given you a respite. But I grow impatient . . .” 

I noticed that the ague had taken him again 
and that, do what he might, he was trembling 
violently all over. 

“If you will allow me to put my left hand to 
my jacket pocket,” I said, “I can show you some¬ 
thing that will explain everything.” 

“Bitte sehr! But remember that I can stretch 
you dead before you will have time to shoot, even 
through your pocket ...” 

From my jacket I produced the little mirror. 
The sun caught its polished surface as I brought 
it out and it flashed and flashed again. 

Between the curving arms of Horseshoe Bay 
the launch of the Naomi came flying. I could 
see the white spray thrown up in two curving 
sheets as her bows cut the green water. To my 


CAPITULATION 


269 


ears stole faintly the quick chug-chug of her pro¬ 
peller. I wondered if Grundt had heard it. But 
he was staring fixedly at the little mirror which 
I kept turning over in my hand so that it flashed 
and flashed. . . . 

“This was wired to the grave, Grundt,” said I. 
“It was what failed you, to read the cipher. You 
remember the line ‘Flimmer, dimmer vieP? 
That was the indication to throw a spot-light, 
thus!” — I caught the sun’s rays in the glass and 
flashed it seaward to the Bay — “from the mirror 
set at an angle of eighty-five degrees; ‘the 
garrison of Kiel,’ ‘die Funf-und-Achtziger,’ you 
know, Herr Doktor! Incidentally it was you 
yourself who were good enough to recall the 
allusion to my mind! ...” 

And I reminded him of our talk in the ravine 
in the forest. 

Savagely he bit his lip. 

“So that was what made you willing to hand me 
the message,” he commented. “I wondered what 
it was. But continue! We waste valuable 
time! ...” 

“The compass bearing indicated by ‘the Feast 
of Orders’ was, of course, 27, from January 27th, 
the date of the celebrations, as you probably 
guessed for yourself. The spot-light thrown on 
this line fell upon a peculiar pillar on the topmost 
terrace which your men are now searching. 


270 


ISLAND GOLD 


From this pillar, between two crags, the Sugar 
Loaf and the Lorelei, both quite easily identified, 
I saw the great image indicated by ‘Puppchen in 
the message. I don’t know whether you know the 
song 6 Puppchen , du bist mein Augenstern? 

“‘Augenstern —the star of my eyes, refers 
to the idol. It has one eye hollow. By mounting 
from the hillside at the back you can look through 
the eye and see the little cairn of stones which 
Ulrich von Hagel, with the hand of death upon 
him, built to mark the hiding-place of the gold. 
At the foot of the image the treasure lies buried. 
From a box at the surface I took this handful 
of gold. I could not move the rest, for I had 
neither pick nor spade and the ground is hard 
and rocky. And that, I think, is all!” 

For the first time Grundt relaxed his forbidding 
expression. 

“Your story sounds plausible, Herr Major ,” 
he said. “This time I believe you are telling the 
truth ...” 

I gazed out into the Bay. The launch had 
disappeared. She must have gone in under the 
cliffs out of sight. 

“In any case,” Clubfoot was saying, “I propose 
to risk it. Being a practical man you will realize 
that I cannot afford to chance the valuable infor¬ 
mation you have acquired falling into the 
possession of your friends. Furthermore, I 


CAPITULATION 


271 


bear you a grudge, Okewood. It has been the 
rule of my life that no man shall best me 
and live. Therefore I am going to shoot you 

now ...” 

A little cry, and even as I turned Marjorie 
pitched forward and fell prone on the grass 
between Grundt and me. 

“Bah!” said Clubfoot, “let her lie! She 
will ...” 

He never finished the sentence. Quick as 
thought the girl half raised herself, two deafening 
reports rang out all but simultaneously, then, 
with a snarling cry, Grundt snatched at his 
wrist. 

The next moment Garth and Lawless burst into 
the hollow. But I was staring at Marjorie who had 
fallen motionless on her face. 


CHAPTER XXIV 

ULRICH VON HAGEL’S TREASURE 

For me in that moment the world seemed to end. 
I had plucked this girl from a placid, unruffled 
existence and plunged her into a vortex of 
adventure. Was she to leave her life, laid down 
for mine, in this desolate island, while I, the 
author of all the mischief, was to escape 
unharmed? 

Lawless was at Clubfoot’s throat, worrying him 
like a terrier with a rat. Then, of a sudden, 
Carstairs and Mackay were there, twisting together 
with a leathern thong those great hairy wrists, 
one of which dripped blood. I stood helpless, 
watching as in a dream Garth raise up his daughter 
and rock her still form in his arms. In her right 
hand she still clasped my automatic with which 
she had saved my life. 

There was a shrill cry from the entrance of 
the hollow. With skirts flying Yvonne, Marjorie’s 
French maid, darted in. “0, ma cherie! Ma 
cherie!” she moaned, as with the tears rolling 
down her face, she dropped to her knees by the 
girl’s side. Now Garth was holding a flask to 


ULRICH VON HAGEL’S TREASURE 273 


his daughter’s lips. Presently, to my unspeakable 
relief, she stirred slightly, then opened her eyes. 

“I’m all right,” she murmured, “quite all 
right really! Ah! Yvonne!” 

And she closed her eyes again. 

Garth stood up, a tall and commanding figure 
of a man in his spotless white drill, and looked 
at me, tatterdermalion that I was, with a four days’ 
growth of beard and unkempt hair, my clothes 
torn and stained, my boots gashed almost to rib¬ 
bons by those cruel rocks. 

“Is she ... is she . . . wounded?” I 
faltered. 

The baronet shook his head and gulped. 

“She’s only fainted,” he replied. “My poor, 
poor lass ...” 

Then, swallowing his feelings, he demanded 
fiercely: 

“Where is this man, Custrin?” 

“Dead,” I answered. “I shot him ...” 

What had happened in the forest had seemed 
natural enough. But with the Naomi civilization 
had returned to Cock Island, and my admission 
sounded horribly cold-blooded in my ears. As 
briefly as might be, but without concealing any 
salient fact, I told Garth the story of what had 
supervened after his departure with Carstairs. 
With ill-concealed impatience and with redden¬ 
ing cheeks, he listened to my tale; but he grew 


274 


ISLAND GOLD 


too angry to hear me to the end. When I told him 
how I had come upon Marjorie in the room 
behind the galley, he burst out in fury: 

“So this is the end of your wild-goose chase! 
My little girl, alone and unprotected, in the hands 
of these savages! By God, Major Okewood, if 
any harm has come to her through your 
doing ...” 

“When I asked your help to get to Cock Island, 
Sir Alexander,” I answered, “I had no means of 
knowing where this adventure would lead us. Nor 
had I any suspicion that I would, that I could be 
followed. Otherwise I should never . . . ” 

He cut me short with an angry gesture of the 
hand. 

“I don’t want to hear any more. It is no thanks 
to you that my poor girl has not lost her life 
through your reckless folly. I had my doubts all 
along as to how far I could trust myself to your 
judgment. If I had had any idea that you and 
that blackguardly doctor, between you, would 
have dragged my little girl into it . . . ” 

This was too much, even from a distraught 
parent. 

“It was none of my doing that Miss Garth 
came ashore,” I retorted hotly. “And as for 
Custrin, it was you who unhesitatingly accepted 
him at face value. You even suggested that he 
should join our expedition ...” 


ULRICH VON HAGEL’S TREASURE 275 


“But for you, Custrin would never have come 
on board. You’ll not contest that, I suppose? 
I wish to Heaven the Naomi had never seen 
you ...” 

“I can only say how very deeply I regret the 
terrible experience Miss Garth had to un¬ 
dergo — ” I began. 

But he only snorted. 

“I don’t want to hear any more from you!” he 
retorted, and walked away. 

I was keenly aware of the hostile atmosphere 
he radiated and it added to my utter sense of 
forlornness. But Lawless was speaking to me, 
as I stood dumbfounded, clapping me on the 
back, asking me if I were all right. 

“The gang’s hooked it,” he chuckled. “With 
the report of the Naomi s gun they must have just 
bolted off to their launch in Sturt Bay, way across 
the island, leaving their skipper to his fate. A 
dangerous man, that, Major! We saw the launch 
crossing the bar and heading for the open sea. 
Sir Alexander was all for going after ’em. But 
I told him it was no good. A seagoing submarine 
chaser like that craft of theirs has got the legs of 
anything the old Naomi can put up ... ” 

Then he told me of the immense surprise which 
the appearance of the launch had occasioned on 
board the yacht as she lay off Alcedo Rock. 

“When the old man found that I had let Miss 


276 


ISLAND GOLD 


Garth ashore with the doctor,” the Captain 
continued, “I thought he was going out of his 
mind. He raged like a wild man. Whew! but 
it was hot work for a bit. He called me every 
name he could lay his tongue to, and I’m damned 
if I know whether Fm in his service yet or no. 
I’ve been carpeted once or twice in my time and 
talked to rough, but I never did see such a dido 
as Sir Alexander raised! And he’s fighting mad 
with you too! . . . ” 

“I have the same impression myself!” I 
answered. 

“We put about at once,” Lawless resumed, “and 
ran for the island. Jock Mackay crammed on 
every ounce of steam he could raise. He has 
nightmare every night thinking of the coal-bill! 
We dropped anchor off the bar and took the 
launch ashore at once. As we came in through 
the lagoon, I caught through my glasses the flash 
of your heliograph from the cliffs in the centre 
of the island. So directly we landed we made 
for the high ground ...” 

“I hadn’t a notion how to let you know where 
we were,” said I, “until I thought of the mirror. 
It was rather a forlorn hope, because, as you 
saw, things were getting a bit pressing when 
you arrived ...” 

Some one touched my elbow. Mackay stood 
there. 


ULRICH VON HAGEL’S TREASURE 277 


“Yon great Geairman is asking to speak with 
you!” 

They had stretched Clubfoot out on his 
blankets beneath the tree. I hate to see a man 
trussed up, anyway, and a queer sort of misguided 
pity stole into my heart as I looked down on 
Grundt, whom I had feared so greatly, strapped 
hand and foot. 

At my approach he opened his eyes. They 
were still grim and fearless. 

“If my men had come,” he said truculently, 
“you would never have escaped. But they ran 
and left me — von Hagel, a German officer, with 
the rest. Truly, I begin to think the sun has set 
on my unfortunate country!” 

He checked himself and seemed to reflect. 

“Young man, young man, that you had known 
me in my prime! But the foundations of my life 
have been knocked away. Okewood, I am getting 
old!” 

The perspiration was damp on his brow. I 
could see the sweat glisten on the bristles of his 
iron-grey hair. 

“In my day, in the years of Germany’s great¬ 
ness, I was all-puissant! I had but one master — 
the Emperor himself! No one — no one , do you 
understand? — not the Imperial Chancellor or 
even the head of the Civil Cabinet — who was 
a greater man than he — dare give me, der Stelze , 



278 


ISLAND GOLD 


orders! Yet I had no official position! My name 
was in no Rang-Liste and I held no decorations. 
Der Stelze was not to be bought by those glittering 
crosses and stars with which so many of my 
fellow countrymen loved to hang themselves! 
No, I was the secret power of the throne, the 
instrument of His Majesty. And, with this one 
exception, the highest in the land trembled at my 
name! ...” 

His voice sounded tired; and it seemed to me 
that, of a sudden, he had, in truth, become an old 
man. His figure had relaxed; he appeared to 
have grown grosser of body than of yore; the 
flesh of his face was sagging and his cheeks had 
fallen in. 

“This was to have been the last adventure,” 
he resumed, and stared at me defiantly — “the 
last of how many? Friends of my Master told me 
of this hoard and delegated me to proceed to 
Central America to track it down. What they 
would have given me for my pains would have 
sufficed to enable me to realize my dream of 
settling down on a little property I have in 
Baden and of passing the evening of my days in 
peace ...” 

“And what did your friends want the money 
for?” I asked. 

“That,” retorted Grundt proudly, “is the 
business of my Master!” 


ULRICH VON HAGEL’S TREASURE 279 


His words gave me my answer; for I knew of 
the existence of secret funds destined to bring 
the Hohenzollerns back to the throne which they 
had so shamefully abandoned. 

“You matched yourself against me, Okewood,” 
Grundt said suddenly, “at a time when already 
the axe was laid at the roots of the German tree. 
In the long seclusion which followed my wound — 
they found it necessary, as you know, to give out 
that I was dead — I used sometimes to think that 
our duel was a miniature reproduction of the 
struggle between Germany and England. And 
in neither case am I quite clear as to why the 
Englander won!” 

“Perhaps it was a case of conscience, Herr 
Doktor?” 

The German looked up at me in surprise. 

“Conscience!” he exclaimed. “But that is not 
a means of warfare!” 

Lawless at my side uttered a loud exclamation. 
He was bending down over the blankets. 

“The treasure!” he exclaimed; “by gum! 
you’ve found it!” 

And he held up a shining gold piece. 

Funny, I had forgotten all about it. 

“On those blankets, Captain,” said I, “you’ll 
find all the treasure we’re ever likely to get out of 
Cock Island. I located the hiding-place all right. 
But the treasure’s gone. There are fifteen gold 


280 


ISLAND GOLD 


pieces there — I counted them. That’s all that s 
left of it . . . ” 

Then Grundt spoke. 

“So you were bluffing to the end!” he said, 
and was silent. 

“Then that was why the gang was in such a 
hurry to be off!” cried Lawless. 

I shook my head. 

“They didn’t find the treasure either,” I replied. 
“Somewhere scattered among the rocky ravines 
and the valleys of this island, a hundred thousand 
pounds in American eagles and German twenty- 
mark pieces are lying. Old Man Destiny had it 
in for us, Captain. He sent a volcanic eruption 
which blew the treasure sky-high!” 

“Jimini!” exclaimed Lawless in a hushed voice. 

“It’s an awfu’ pity!” ejaculated Mackay 
mournfully. 

Yvonne came. Marjorie was asking for me, 
she said. I found her sitting up, with Garth at her 
side. The light was slowly mellowing and the 
sinking sun cast long shadows across the hol¬ 
low. The sky was all marbled with red and gold 
flecks. 

Rather shyly Marjorie thrust a slim white hand 
into mine. It may have been my fancy; but I 
think I saw Garth wince. 

“So you did come out on top after all?” she 
said. “Sit down there beside Daddy and tell me 


ULRICH VON HAGEL’S TREASURE 281 


all about it from the beginning. You found the 
treasure, then?” 

“I found where it had been hid,” I replied. 
“But it had vanished ...” 

“Vanished?” cried Marjorie, and I swear there 
was dismay in her voice. 

“Vanished?” echoed Garth. 

“But the gold pieces you threw to Grundt?” 
queried the girl. “I don’t understand . . . ” 

“That was part of one box which had survived 
the volcanic eruption which scattered Ulrich von 
Hagel’s hoard to the four winds. You remember 
that wisp of smoke we saw rising from the hill¬ 
side in front of the great image? Well, I dis¬ 
covered that it came from a deep fissure in the 
mountain-side at the foot of the idol. From the 
little cairn of stones which still stands on the edge 
of the cliff, it was clear that the treasure had been 
stored in a cave which appears to have been 
hollowed out of the rock in front of the idol. 

“Where that cave was is now a yawning hole 
belching forth smoke and streams of lava. In 
fact, as far as I can judge, the treasure was blown 
clean out of the mountain-side. That this surmise 
is correct is shown, I think, by my discovery of 
the remains of a wooden box in which were still 
a few gold pieces. Other fragments of charred 
wood were scattered around. For the rest the 
treasure is gone and will never be recovered!” 


282 


ISLAND GOLD 


Marjorie’s eyes rested mournfully on my face; 
but I could not meet her gaze. 

“But how did you discover all this?” 

“The passage by which I escaped from the 
burial chamber brought me out within a hundred 
yards of the image. The sulphur fumes from the 
fresh cone of the volcano caught me by the throat 
directly I emerged into the open. My one idea 
was to find you. So I crammed the gold pieces 
in my pocket and made for Horseshoe Bay to see 
if the yacht had returned. Finding no sign of 
her or you, I started to reconnoitre. I guessed 
that Clubfoot and his party would be watching 
somewhere near the terraced rock, and, sure 
enough, as I was prowling in the undergrowth 
near here, I saw the whole gang file out towards 
the rock. I watched where they had come from 
and creeping up saw you and Grundt in conver¬ 
sation. The only thing that mattered then was to 
get you out of Grundt’s clutches. I saw no sign 
of any guards, but I made sure that Clubfoot 
would have help within easy reach. As I was 
turning things over in my mind, I heard the 
Naomi s gun. So I decided to risk everything 
on a final bluff and I acted at once . . . ” 
“When they told me you were not in the cave,” 
said Marjorie, “I couldn’t believe my ears. How 
on earth did you manage to escape?” 

“Well,” I replied, “you remember that stone 


ULRICH VON HAGEL’S TREASURE 283 


table on which the mummies lay? Under one of 
them I found, let into the table, a flat stone carved 
with a turtle. I don’t know whether you realize 
the significance of that sign. The turtle was the 
mark of that celebrated buccaneer, Captain 
Roberts, who, in the old days, was a great man in 
these waters. The buccaneers are known to have 
used Cock Island for obtaining fresh meat and 
water — you can read about it in the ‘Sailing 
Directions’ — so the sign of the turtle set me 
thinking. 

“I tried to get the stone up, but it was firmly 
cemented in the table. However, in my pushing 
and thrusting I leant against the table edge and 
suddenly the whole top swung round outwards 
into the cave leaving a hole about five feet deep. 
That hole was the opening of a passage several 
hundred yards long which led into the open 

_ • 55 

air ... 

“But how did you manage to close the open¬ 
ing behind you?” 

“Quite simply. I arranged the mummies as 
they were before, covering the turtle stone, then, 
standing in the hole, I drew the table-top back 
into place again. It is quite solid and does not 
ring hollow — it is the simplest and neatest 
device of its kind I ever saw. Roberts and his 
men must have used the burial chamber for some 
sort of secret meetings, I imagine. Perhaps in 


284 


ISLAND GOLD 


their day Cock Island was inhabited . . . 

There was so much I had to ask, so much I 
would have said. But the presence of her father, 
dour and intractable, threw an invisible bar 
between us. I felt embarrassed and mis¬ 
erable — because I realized, I suppose, that our 
island dream was at an end. 

“It is getting dark,” said Garth, standing up. 
“Come, Marjie, it’s time we were back on board!” 

He did not include me in the summons. Yet 
I should have to sail with him again. He could 
not maroon me there. 

“You’re coming with us?” said my dear 
Marjorie with her ready tact. • 

“Only as far as the beach,” I replied. “We 
have to decide what’s to be done with our friend 
yonder ...” 

In truth the problem of Grundt was beginning 
to obtrude itself in my mind. 

“I’ll come on board later,” I said, “if Sir 
Alexander will allow me ... ” 

“We must, of course, take Major Okewood 
back with us to Rodriguez,” Garth observed 
stiffly. 

At that Marjorie flared up. 

“Daddy!” she cried indignantly. 

We went down to the shore in silence. As we 
emerged from the woods, John Bard came striding 
up the beach. 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE END OF A DREAM 

I don’t think I was ever so glad in my life before 
to see any one. There he was in the flesh, dear 
old John, tall and grave and courteous, like any 
Spanish don, in a clean tussore suit and the 
inevitable cigar stuck in a comer of his mouth. 

“John!” I exclaimed. “How on earth did you 
ever get here?” 

He stared a time in astonishment. It was 
obvious that, for the moment, he did not recognize 
me. Well might he wonder who this begrimed 
tramp might be who greeted him so familiarly. 
But then he cried out and clapped me on the back. 

“Desmond, by all that’s holy! Man, you’ve 
given us an anxious time! What have you been 
up to to get yourself in that condition?” 

“It’s a long story now ended,” I answered 
soberly, “and it’ll keep! At present I can’t get 
over your turning up here! ...” 

“From enquiries I made about El Cojo and 
his gang after you left, I got seriously alarmed 
about you,” said this most faithful friend. “But 
when I heard that the Government coastal defence 
motor-boat, the fastest craft in these waters, was 


286 


ISLAND GOLD 


missing, I decided it was time I came to look for 
you. One of my fruit-ships, the Cristobal , 
happened to be in harbour, so I came along in 
her. She’s lying outside now. Before we do any 
more talking, I suggest you come aboard with me 
and have a clean-up. And you look as though 
you could do with a drink as well! . . . 

I explained the difficulty I was in regarding 
the disposal of Grundt. 

“El Cojo, ah?” commented Bard, and whistled. 
“That’s some capture you’ve got there, Desmond. 
We’ll take him back with us to Rodriguez. He’s 
hand in glove with the President, I believe, and I 
should like to give His Excellency a lesson.” 

So we settled it. Bard arranged to send a boat 
ashore to fetch Clubfoot to the Cristobal. He 
promised to see to it that my enemy was safely 
bestowed. 

So I turned my back on Cock Island and left 
it brooding sadly beneath the stars with the 
terraced rock and the image and the little bowl¬ 
shaped clearing where von Hagel slept. I went 
on board the Cristobal and for a good half-hour, 
with a long “peg” within easy reach of my hand, 
lay and soaked the stiffness out of my bones in 
a boiling hot bath. John had volunteered, in the 
meantime, to send a boat over to the Naomi to 
fetch my luggage; for I had told him how things 
stood between me and Garth and he assumed that 


THE END OF A DREAM 


287 


I would remain on the Cristobal. I had hesitated 
an instant before replying; for I desperately 
wanted to see Marjorie again. But, I reflected, 
a millionaire’s daughter was not for me — it 
was better we should part thus. So I scribbled a 
note for the coloured steward to take to her: just 
a line to say good-bye and to thank her for the 
action that had saved my life. 

They brought me some food in my cabin, and 
while, attired in a voluminous dressing-gown of 
my friend’s, I ate, John Bard told me what he had 
learnt regarding the connection of El Cojo’s gang 
with Cock Island. 

“During the war,” he said, “the island was 
the depot for certain important gun-running 
operations carried out by Black Pablo and his 
friends for the Mexican insurgents. The idea 
of the scheme, which was directed by the German 
espionage heads in the United States, was to keep 
things humming on the American border and to 
detain United States troops there. 

“In those days Black Pablo had a ship of his 
own. He used to call periodically and collect 
arms and ammunition deposited on the island 
by some German commerce raider or other — 
there is talk of a mysterious vessel under the 
Swedish flag that used to stand off here — and 
take this contraband to Rodriguez. Here in port, 
under cover of night, it was transferred to a 



288 


ISLAND GOLD 


Mexican steamer which ultimately ran it ashore 
somewhere on the Mexican coast. 

“On the outward trip to Cock Island, Black 
Pablo used to carry large stocks of gasoline for 
German craft operating in these waters . . . ” 

“There’s a group of sheds on the other side of 
the island which Clubfoot’s men called ‘The 
Petrol Store,’ ” I put in. 

“Precisely,” said Bard. “There was a regu¬ 
lar traffic here. The island is, after all, 
conveniently enough situated for the work they 
had in hand: not too far from the Central 
American coast, yet well off the trade routes. It 
was naturally, you might say, selected as the 
rendezvous in connection with what was intended 
to be Germany’s biggest coup against the 
Americans in the war . . . the destruction of 
the Panama Canal!” 

“By George!” I commented. 

“If it hadn’t been for the Armistice,” Bard 
continued, “I believe they would have pulled it 
off. They spent months on the preparations: 
everything was worked out to the last detail. 
The most vulnerable points were to be dynamited: 
the Gatun Lock and the Culebra Cut, I know, were 
mentioned. The big bang was planned for 
November, ’18 . . 

“I see! And the Armistice spoilt it?” 

“Exactly. The H. E. had been passed by 


THE END OF A DREAM 


289 


Black Pablo and Co. to the parties appointed to 
carry out the explosion, and it was agreed that, as 
soon as the coup had come off, Black Pablo 
should make for the island rendezvous to receive 
his pay from a trusted German emissary who 
would await him there. The sum was one 
hundred thousand pounds in American gold dol¬ 
lars and German gold marks. But the Armistice, 
as you say, knocked the whole thing on the head. 
The entire German fabric collapsed, its plots and 
intrigues with it, including the canal coup. The 
Allies took a very firm hand with the Rodriguez 
Government and forced them to expel Black 
Pablo and confiscate his ship. Pablo went to 
San Salvador and did his best to charter a vessel 
there. But there was a heavy slump in German 
stock and everybody had the wind up. So nothing 
was done ...” 

“And Grundt — El Cojo?” 

“I did not succeed in finding out a great deal 
about his movements; for the people from whom 
I enquired either did not or would not know 
anything about him. But apparently he turned 
up from Havana some months ago. The rest of 
the story — how they got on to Dutchy and his 
tale of the message taken by the Englishman from 
the grave — you know ...” 

There was a tap at the cabin-door. The dark- 
skinned steward of the Cristobal was there with 


290 


ISLAND GOLD 


my kit from the Naomi. “El Cojo,” he told us, 
had just come on board. Bard threw a question¬ 
ing glance at me. 

“I leave him to you, John,” I said. “I don’t 
want to see him again ...” 

My friend grinned understanding^ and left 
the cabin. In silence the steward laid out some 
clean clothes for me. He said nothing about my 
note to Marjorie. Had she had it? Surely she 
would have answered . . . 

“You left my letter for the Senorita?” I asked 
at last. 

“Si, si, Senor Comandante," the man replied. 
“The Senorita was on deck with the rich Ingles, 
her father, and I gave the Senor Comandante 9 s 
note into her own hands!” 

“And she read it?” 

“Si, Senor!" 

“And there was ... no reply?” 

“No, Senor!" 

Well, that settled it. I had my conge . Cock 
Island and those wonderful days with Marjorie 
must go into the storehouse of past mem¬ 
ories. . . . Yet there was a tug at my heart as 
for a moment I thought of her as I had held her 
in my arms in the burial chamber and she had 
raised her face to mine. “Money doesn’t count 
down here!” she had whispered; but now we were 
back in the workaday world where money could 


THE END OF A DREAM 


291 


prove an insuperable barrier between true 
lovers. . . . 

In moody silence I dressed and went above. 
A crescent moon hung low down on the horizon 
and the deck was eerie with fantastic shadows. 
No one was about. On our starboard bow the 
rugged mass of Cock Island was a black blur 
against the stars. 

It is one of the failings of the Celtic tempera¬ 
ment that its moments of the highest elation are 
apt to be followed by phases of the deepest 
depression. Reaction had come upon me after 
our days of high adventure and floored me utterly. 
All the spice, so it seemed to me in that dark hour 
beneath the moon on the Cristobal’s deserted 
deck, had gone out of the romance of my pro¬ 
fession and left me with an ill taste in my mouth. 
As I paced up and down I revisualized the scenes 
through which I had passed in my quest: Adams 
gasping for breath in his hovel, Garth and I 
scrambling through the steaming jungle, that 
storm-tossed figure by the grave, Marjorie pillow¬ 
ing her gold-brown head on my breast in the 
darkness of the cave . . . 

From every one of the pictures which passed 
across my mind her face seemed to look out, the 
narrow pencilled eyebrows above the clear grey 
eyes, the great tenderness of her mouth . . . 
Within a few hours, I pondered sadly, I had 


292 


ISLAND GOLD 


found my love and lost her as I had found and 
lost the treasure . . . 

A voice was hailing us out of the gloom that 
hung over the opalescent sea. 

“ Cristobal , ahoy!” 

The sound of oars came to me, and presently 
a ship’s boat emerged from the night, a white 
figure in the stern. A few minutes later Marjorie 
Garth, wrapped in a white blanket coat, stepped 
out of the boat that rocked in the swell at the foot 
of the Cristobal’s companion and mounted to the 
deck. 

“You would have left me like this?” she said, 
and stood close by my side. 

I shrugged my shoulders. 

“It was not a friendly thing to do . . . 

partner,” she added in a breathless sort of way. 

“Your father . . . ” I began. 

“Oh!” she cried in a low voice, “I was ashamed 
for him. After what you risked to save me. 
But you must make allowances. I am all he has, 
you know. He’ll be all right in a day or two. 
We’re going back to Panama and home by way of 
America. And I’ve come to fetch you back to 
the Naomi! ...” 

I shook my head. 

“No!” I said. 

“If I ask you to come? And I’ll make Daddy 
apologize, if you like ...” 


THE END OF A DREAM 


293 


She laid her hand on my arm. 

“No!” I said again. 

Hurt, she withdrew her hand. 

“Your stupid pride ...” she began. 

“Don’t let us quarrel,” I pleaded. “Let me 
keep a wonderful dream unspoiled, Marjorie. 
But dreams can’t last forever, my dear. One 
has to wake up sometime, you know!” 

Questioningly her eyes sought mine. 

“Even if Sir Alexander had not told me I 
was not wanted on the Naomi I continued, “I 
think I should yet have parted from you here. 
My dear, my dear, don’t you see it’s hopeless? 
I care far too much for you to be able to know 
you merely as a friend. I must make an end 
of it. The barrier between us is insur¬ 
mountable ...” 

“Barrier?” she repeated. “What barrier?” 

“Money! You’re too rich, Marjorie, for me 
to ask you the question which, almost from the 
moment I first saw you in the smoke-room of the 
Naomi , I have wanted to put to you. I make 
enough out of this trade of mine to keep a wife. 
But as long as I’m in the Secret Service I’d ask 
no woman to marry me. It wouldn’t be playing 
the game by her — nor by the Service, 
either! ...” 

She listened to me in silence. Then she said 
quite simply: 


294 


ISLAND GOLD 


“Desmond, if you’ll ask me, I’ll be your wife. 
I’ve never met a man I’d marry before; but I’d 
marry you. Why should you let money stand be¬ 
tween us? I shall have enough for both . . .” 

I loved her for her words. But I shook my head 
again. 

“It won’t do, my dear,” said I. “And you know 
it won’t do. If I’d found that cursed treasure, 
things might have been different. But now I’ve 
only to tell you I shall never forget that you paid 
me the greatest compliment a woman can pay a 
man . . . and to say good-bye ...” 

With a sob she turned from me and, ignoring 
my arm, ran down the ladder and stepped into 
the boat. 

• •••••• 

Before morning came, Clubfoot had escaped. 
Loud shouts from Cock Island where, by Garth’s 
permission, some of the crew of the Naomi had 
spent the night ashore, discovered the news to us. 
The Naomi s launch, which they had drawn up on 
the beach, was missing, and at the companion of 
the Cristobal a severed length of rope showed 
that the painter of one of the ship’s boats which 
had been tied up there had been cut. 

Bard held an enquiry. But his crew came from 
Rodriguez, “and,” he told me, “they have a holy 
fear of El Cojo. He simply blustered his way 


THE END OF A DREAM 


295 


out of the lamp-room where I had him imprisoned! 
I’m not sure,” he added with a grin, “that old 
Clubfoot has not himself presented us with the 
simplest solution of a very difficult problem!” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


IN WHICH A BLACK BOX PLAYS A 
DECISIVE PART 

A smear of smoke on the horizon was all that was 
left to denote the presence of the Naomi when 
John Bard came to me as I sat in the shade of 
the after-deck of the Cristobal , going through the 
mail he had brought me from Rodriguez. He 
dropped into a chair at my side. 

“Captain Lawless and that Scots engineer of 
his,” he said, “spent the greater part of the night 
ashore grubbing for gold round the image. But 
they didn’t find as much as a dollar. And then 
to discover they had lost their launch! Gee! they 
were as sick as mud!” 

“Bah!” I answered, “I’m fed up with the whole 
place. The sooner we’re at sea again, the better 
I shall be pleased. I want to get back to work, 
John ...” 

“We’re sailing at four o’clock,” my friend 
replied. “But before we up anchor, Desmond, 
old man, I should like to have a look at that 
burial chamber and the passage by which you 
escaped. What do you say to taking me ashore 
now and showing me round?” 


A BLACK BOX 


297 


“Anything to pass the time,” I said wearily. 
“When do we start?” 

“Right now. And I’ll bring a pick and spade. 
If there’s time we might have another grub for 
gold in the lava round the idol ...” 

“You bet the canny Scot hasn’t left an inch of 
soil unturned,” I laughed as old John went off. 

Half an hour later we were pushing our way 
across the rocky valley at the end of which, against 
the mountain-side, the great idol was set. We 
skirted the smoking volcano, and at length stood 
before the narrow fissure, half hidden by a 
gigantic boulder, through which I had emerged 
from the burial-chamber. 

We had borrowed a couple of lanterns from the 
ship and Bard carried a pick-axe while I shoul¬ 
dered a spade. We left our tools at the entrance 
and lit our lamps. Then I led the way into the 
passage. At the end I found the solid masonry 
of the table hanging down into the passage. A 
steady heave swung it round, and there, above 
our heads, was the black square opening of the 
death-chamber. 

And now I struck. The place had too poignant 
memories for me. I hoisted Bard up into the 
hole, but I declined to accompany him. Swinging 
my lamp in my hand I wandered back along the 
passage towards the cleft by which we had entered. 

I had gone perhaps a hundred yards from the 


298 


ISLAND GOLD 


cave when the light of my lantern, striking low, 
revealed a square flag set in the floor of the 
passage. It sounded hollow to the foot. Setting 
down my lamp, I stooped to examine it, and then 
I saw that the stone was roughly carved. The 
carving was worn and filled in with dust. I 
scraped it clear as best I could with my hands, 
and then saw that the stone was carved with the 
likeness of a turtle, the counterpart of the turtle 
carved on the table in the cave. I could see the 
head and tail and the four flippers roughly hewn. 

“John!” I shouted. “Here, John!” 

My voice reverberated weirdly in the low- 
roofed passage. I dropped to my knees and tried 
to heave the stone up. But it was firmly set and 
resisted all my efforts. Then I heard Bard’s foot¬ 
steps echoing along the passage. 

“Will you look at that?” I said as he came up. 

“By George!” he exclaimed. “Captain Roberts, 
his mark! Can you heave it up? Wait! I’ll get 
the tools!” 

And he darted off along the passage. 

With the aid of the pick we prized the stone 
up. A slot had obviously been cut for it in the 
rock. A shallow opening was revealed and at 
the bottom stood a black box. 

It was of black leather, discoloured, but ap¬ 
parently in good condition, the corners bound with 
some dull metal which I took to be brass. It was 


A BLACK BOX 


299 


about four feet long with a rounded lid studded 
with nails. Bard lifted up one of the lanterns 
whilst I, lying on my face, dropped an arm into 
the hole. My fingers closed on a handle at the 
side of the box. I heaved. The box was im¬ 
mensely heavy and I found that I could barely lift 
it. I managed, however, to push it to one side 
thus making room for my feet. Then I dropped 
into the hole, upended the casket, and by dint of 
our combined exertions we landed it on the floor 
of the passage. 

I looked at Bard and he looked at me. 

“You — open it!” I said hoarsely. 

The box seemed to be of Spanish manufacture, 
for the leather was handsomely tooled in the 
Cordova fashion. It was fitted with an elabo¬ 
rately chased iron or steel lock with a hasp that 
rattled to Bard’s touch. Without further cere¬ 
mony he inserted the point of the pick under the 
hasp, wrenched, and, the nails giving way in the 
rotten leather, the whole lock came off. Then 
he threw up the lid and we saw a layer of dis¬ 
coloured brown canvas. This I pulled aside, and 
we fell back in amazement. 

For the box was filled to the brim with mag¬ 
nificent gold and silver vessels, interspersed with 
them richly chased pistols and a couple of dag¬ 
gers with hilts studded with gems. There were, 
amongst other things, a superbly wrought ewer 


300 


ISLAND GOLD 


and basin, both of which seemed to be of solid 
gold, a flat gold dish set with diamonds and 
rubies, a gem-laden crucifix, the Christ in pure 
gold, and an enormous variety of gold and silver 
forks and spoons. We laid all these treasures 
out on the floor of the passage, and then, beneath 
some folded lengths of rich crimson brocade, 
came upon a long ebony box in which, wrapped 
loosely in a cambric scarf yellowed with age, was 
a superb collection of gems. There were no less 
than three magnificent parures of pearls, such as 
great ladies in the days of the Merry Monarch 
wore upon their necks and bosoms, a number of 
diamond and pearl drops such as were worn on 
the forehead, diamond ear-rings, a huge emerald 
set as a brooch, several heavy gold chains, and 
some diamond buckles. Beside the ebony box, 
enveloped in a flowered silk wrap, was a curiously 
fashioned silver globe richly set with different 
precious stones to represent the various capitals of 
the world. 

Bard heaved a deep sigh and looked at me. 

“My word, old boy!” he exclaimed, “you’ve 
done it at last!” 

“What — what do you suppose it’s worth?” I 
asked rather unsteadily. 

“A hundred thousand, two hundred thousand 
pounds,” answered Bard — “who can say? The 
antiquarian value, altogether apart from the in¬ 
trinsic, of some of these things — that crucifix 


A BLACK BOX 


301 


and that globe, for example — must be very con¬ 
siderable. That emerald and those brilliants, for 
instance . . . but you aren’t listening . . 

I wasn’t. A sudden vision had come to me of 
clear grey eyes trustfully raised to mine, of a 
tangle of copper-coloured hair that rested against 
my coat, of a slim warm body that clung con¬ 
fidingly to me. The discoloured leather trunk 
which lay at our feet was destined to change the 
whole course of my life. Hope, to which, with 
Marjorie, I had said good-bye, came surging back 
into my heart. Our island dream was not at an 
end . . . unless good fortune had come to me 
too late. 

“When will the Naomi reach Panama?” I sud¬ 
denly asked. 

“In about a week or ten days,” John replied. 
“Why?” 

“Because,” I said, “I must reach her by 
cable! . . 

It was ultimately from Rodriguez that my mes¬ 
sage was sent. Akawa, Bard’s Japanese butler, 
took it down the hill to the cable office. I was 
prostrate with a bad bout of malaria which I must 
have contracted in the steamy woods of Cock 
Island. My cable was to Marjorie and this is 
what it said: 

The barriers are down. When will you marry me? 

Desmond 


302 


ISLAND GOLD 


But no reply came. All through the feverish 
days of my illness, a shadowy cable addressed to 
me flitted through my tortured mind. Sometimes, 
when I was light-headed, as Bard told me after¬ 
wards, I would fancy that Marjorie had replied, 
that Akawa was handing me the message. . . . 
But when consciousness returned, I awoke to a 
dark world which even the leather trunk locked 
away in Bard’s strong-room could not illumine. 

It was weeks before I could travel to New York, 
where I placed the treasure in the hands of a 
firm of antiquaries. They advised that it should 
come on the market only gradually, piece by 
piece, in order not to depreciate its value. I do 
not, therefore, know even now exactly how much 
it will realize; but from what they tell me I am 
quite justified in regarding myself as a compara¬ 
tively wealthy man. Bard will not touch a cent 
of the treasure. He does not need it, he says, 
and it belongs to me. . . . 

A cable from the Chief, to whom I had com¬ 
municated my New York address, awaited me on 
my arrival from Panama. It directed me to go 
to Washington for instructions. The treasure dis¬ 
posed of, I accordingly boarded the train and 
proceeded to the capital. 

From my hotel at Washington I telephoned to 
my old friend, Vincent Pargett, at the Embassy, 
and invited myself to dinner. If you want a drink 


A BLACK BOX 


303 


in Washington to-day, you must dine in diplo¬ 
matic circles. Vincent made me welcome in his 
very comfortable bachelor apartment, and over 
the cocktails produced a batch of cables. 

“You’d better read this one first, Desmond,” he 
said. “It came only this morning. The rest have 
been here a week.” And he tossed over the 
envelope. 

It was from Marjorie. My heart seemed to 
stop beating as my eyes fell on her name printed 
at the foot of the message. It was from London, 
and I realized that my cable must have missed 
her at Panama and followed her home. 

This was her reply: 

Whenever you like. 

Your Marjorie 

There are moments which justify even the 
Secret Service agent in abandoning his wonted 
habit of reticence. With Marjorie’s dear message 
in my hand, I told old Vincent, whom I have 
known all my life, the news which it contained. 

“Three cheers!” exclaimed my friend, then 
raised his glass. 

“I drink,” said he with mock solemnity, “to the 

passing of England’s premier sleuth!” 

• •••••••• 

I wonder! Shall I, in the stay-at-home Gov¬ 
ernment billet which the Chief procured for me, 


>■> 0 VXi 


304 ISLAND GOLD 

6 $ C' 

and happy in the possession of Marjorie as my 
wife, always be able to resist the beckoning finger 
of romance luring towards high adventure and 
spirited endeavour? Shall I, to the end of the 
chapter, remain deaf to the call of the blood, aloof 
from the thrill of the man-hunt? Quien sabe? 
Who knows? 

Of Clubfoot I never heard again, and to this 
day I do not know whether, weak as he was and 
single-handed in that little launch, he ever made 
the land. Garth, inclined to be difficult at first, 
resigned himself at the last with a good grace to 
our matrimonial projects. I think the argument 
that my share of Captain Roberts’s treasure would 
remain in the family made a distinct appeal to his 
Lancashire horse-sense. Carstairs is with us still 
and is developing into an excellent butler. 

For the Vice-Consul at Rodriguez, whose 
friendly services I had not forgotten, the Chief 
procured the C.B.E. I am told that he wears 
it very impressively, dangling from its purple 
ribbon on his shirt-front, when, in evening dress, 
according to the protocol, he attends the 
President of Rodriguez at the opening of the 
Legislature. 


THE END 











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